


Ask Me For a Contribution

by MeMeMe



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Boarding School, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bickering, Cynicism, Family Drama, Graduation, Hate at First Sight, Headaches & Migraines, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, School Project
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-15
Updated: 2013-07-26
Packaged: 2017-12-15 01:10:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 24,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/843571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MeMeMe/pseuds/MeMeMe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras is the resident rabble-rouser and thorn in the side of the administration at his expensive boarding school. New student Grantaire has been kicked out of six schools in four years. When Professor Lamarque assigns them to work together on a semester-long project, it's not one of his most inspired teaching decisions. Maybe he should retire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Someone Provocative and Talkative

**Author's Note:**

  * For [booksonalaska](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=booksonalaska).



> So... this is not oh me of little faith. It's something new! I'm participating in the Enjoltaire gift exchange, and this is a gift for the lovely booksonalaska, who has challenged me immensely with a request for teenagers, self-discovery, and conflict. My imagination took this prompt on a long spiralling journey from which it may never return.

It was one of the unavoidable facts of high school life that as soon as a teacher said the word “pairs,” the pairs had formed. Silent eye motions magnetized the classroom and indivisible units sprang into being before the sentence was even complete. Even Enjolras, who generally took such pride in being above the usual machinations of high school, was not immune to this effect.

Or he wouldn’t have been, if he weren’t too busy arguing with Lamarque.

“What do you mean ‘no trouble’?” he asked. “Aren’t we guaranteed trouble once we start prying into the workings underlying the status quo?”

“Ah, yes, I thought you might take issue with that instruction,” Lamarque said, lips twitching with an expression that verged on unprofessional. “But, alas, it stands. It seems that donors to our illustrious institution are turned off by a student body with criminal records and/or missing limbs, and the administration frowns upon any activities which frighten the trustees. So, in the interest of me keeping my job, I must humbly request that you all curtail your felonious impulses and keep all your work on this assignment safe and legal. Think of it as an added challenge.”

That was why Lamarque was Enjolras’s favorite professor. Most of his teachers had lost patience with him by senior year; their _you know what I meant_ and _please let me finish_ had taken on the same exasperation as his classmates’ groans and eye rolls. The knowledge that he was smart seemed to make them like him less rather than more; his report cards, stocked with respectable Bs and speckled with the occasional C from Professor Javert, had contained at least one variation on “not achieving up to his potential” a semester since third grade. But in Lamarque’s classes, Enjolras always earned an A.

As soon as he’d read on Lamarque’s handout that the task was to “examine and challenge” societal norms, he’d had a dozen ideas for radical action. But they all carried some risk of arrest, and apparently he was bound to the law.

“But isn’t the best way to challenge societal norms to subvert them?” Enjolras looked up at Lamarque. “And what’s more blindly accepted than the law? How can we overturn the trappings of society if we are ourselves trapped in them?”

He knew better than to expect a whoop of agreement, but the complete lack of agreement expressed by his classmates almost made him doubt the validity of his message.

“Enjolras,” Lamarque warned. “You know how I feel about students using my own words against me. You and your partner—“

“Combeferre,” Enjolras supplied, without even looking to his right for confirmation.

Lamarque smiled, cool and sardonic. “Don’t you think a good way to start thwarting expectations might be to partner with someone other than Combeferre?”

Enjolras kept his face impassive as he darted a look to the desk next to his, where Combeferre was blinking rapidly behind his glasses. “A good way to start any project is to partner with Combeferre,” he said loyally.

“I think it would bring a fresh perspective for you to work with someone new,” Lamarque sighed. “And, no, Courfeyrac doesn’t count.”

“Who else would I work with?” Enjolras asked. It was part sass and part genuine confusion; he had completed several ‘group’ projects as a solo practitioner after his classmates refused to work with him.

Lamarque cast his eyes about the room.

The students bowed their heads and shuffled papers, hastening to appear busy and shrinking into their seats to avoid drawing attention to themselves. All except one—a boy at the back of the classroom, fast asleep on top of his desk.

“Grantaire,” Lamarque said.

The sleeping boy shot upward at a kick from the kid sitting next to him.

“Professor Lamarque—” Enjolras pleaded.

“You will be working with Enjolras on this semester’s final project,” Lamarque said, talking over him with an ease born of practice.

Grantaire rubbed his bloodshot eyes. “I’m working with Marius,” he said.

The startled-looking boy next to him nodded.

“I’ll work with Marius,” called a voice from the front of the classroom. “I don’t have a partner.”

Lamarque beamed. “Lovely. Cosette, you work with Marius, and Enjolras with Grantaire. Is everyone paired up?” He paused for their murmurs of assent. “All right. You have the rest of the period to brainstorm.”

“You walked right into that,” Courfeyrac whispered, leaning forward in his seat to reach Enjolras’s ear. “Didn’t you realize it was a trap?”

Enjolras glowered.

“Leave him alone,” Combeferre said, tugging his desk closer to Joly’s. “He couldn’t have outmaneuvered Lamarque anyway.”

“The General strikes again.” Courfeyrac grinned.

It was a nickname the student body had for Lamarque—a man not well-loved for his rigorous grading tactics.

“It won’t be so bad,” Combeferre murmured, straightening his tie. “Just go talk to him about the hundred ideas you already have.”

Enjolras took a deep breath, certain he hadn’t done anything worthy of this level of punishment, and headed across the room.

Grantaire looked up at him from under a mess of shaggy black curls. “Well, if it isn’t General Lamarque’s golden boy,” he said, mouth curving into a lopsided smile. “Lucky me.”

Enjolras felt heat creep up the back of his neck. “Are you going to move?” he snapped, indicating the chair where Grantaire had propped up his legs up.

Grantaire shrugged and—very slowly, presumably to show that he didn’t _have_ to—put his feet on the ground. “All yours,” he said.

“Thanks,” Enjolras replied acidly. He perched lightly on the edge of the seat. “I don’t suppose you have any ideas about the project?”

“As a matter of fact, I do,” Grantaire smirked, leaning forward. “I was thinking we could put your pretty face to work and dress you in the girls’ uniform, then film people slowly realizing you aren’t a girl.”

“Why?”

“It could be a protest of rigid gender roles, or dress codes, or just how funny it would be.”

Enjolras scowled. “If you aren’t going to be serious—“

“Oh, you’re serious enough for the both of us,” Grantaire rolled his eyes. “Forget it. We’ll go with what you’ve got.”

“Okay,” Enjolras said, in what was in his opinion an exceptionally patient tone. “Great. Well. I have a few thoughts—“

“Of course you do,” Grantaire muttered.

“—but the best one is an examination of the plight of the homeless,” Enjolras continued. “We could interview some street people about their experiences on the fringes of society and contrast it with common statements about homeless people by those who have never experienced it.”

Grantaire nibbled his lower lip. “You have no problem talking over people, do you?”

“Not when they’ve proven they aren’t going to say anything worthwhile,” Enjolras snapped. “What about the idea?”

Grantaire shrugged. “Whatever.”

“That’s it?”

“Well,” Grantaire said, propping his chin on his hand, “do you really think people are going to want to talk to you about their problems?”

Enjolras stiffened. “People want their voices to be heard,” he said. “I’m just going to give them space.”

“No, you’re going to exploit the helpless for your own personal gain,” Grantaire said. “You’re just a pretty rich boy dabbling in oppression for a good grade.”

“Do you have a better idea?” Enjolras asked, jaw tensing around his fury.

Grantaire’s left eyebrow twitched upward. “Just playing devil’s advocate.”

“Can you not?”

“I thought you wanted me to have an opinion,” Grantaire said with an air of mock innocence. “Are you always this picky?”

Enjolras sighed. “Are we doing the project or not?”

“It’s fine. How are you planning to relay these interviews to the class?” Grantaire had been listening after all. The project was slated to end in class presentations in lieu of a final exam at the end of the term. “Your voice is great and all, but I don’t really see you as much of an actor. Plus the class might stone you to death if you do another Prezi, and I don’t think that’s the kind of martyrdom you’re counting on.”

Enjolras frowned. “Who told you about that?”

“No one had to tell me, Angelface. I was in your lit seminar last semester.”

“No, you weren’t.” Enjolras didn’t have a perfect memory but it rarely dropped anyone this infuriating.

“I was so,” Grantaire argued. “I sat in the back left corner next to the door. I had a perfect view of the back of your head every time I showed up, which admittedly was not often.”

“You’re new,” Enjolras said, though he felt less certain than his voice sounded.

“Not anymore,” Grantaire said, but it sounded like agreement. “Have you given any thought to the presentation?”

Enjolras cleared his throat. “The school has video cameras. Professor Lamarque can check one out for us to use. We can edit the footage into an educational film. Maybe if we get something really good, we can send it to the Mayor’s office as part of a plea for better legislation regarding the homeless.”

Grantaire laughed. “Think a lot of yourself, huh? You really think you’re going to change the world with a school project?”

“I don’t think I’m going to change anything by mocking those who try,” he shot back.

Grantaire’s eyes met his. Steady. Unafraid.

A challenge.

The bell rang.

“Read Resistance to Civil Government for class on Wednesday,” Lamarque called over the clamor of students gathering their supplies. “Come prepared to ask at least two good discussion questions, _especially_ if you never ask questions. And put your desks back the way you found them! I arranged this room for maximum feng shui. Anyone who leaves a chair out of place receives an automatic zero, and you can take that up with the school disciplinary board.”

Enjolras slid his binder into his backpack and stood. “We’ll arrange a time to meet on Wednesday. Look at your calendar and bring a list of dates.”

Grantaire snorted.

“And Grantaire?” He slipped the straps of his backpack over his shoulders. “If you call me ‘Angelface’ ever again, I will make sure every men’s’ restroom on campus contains a part of your body. Are we clear?”

Grantaire nodded. “Aye aye, chief.”

Enjolras pivoted and walked out of the classroom, where Combeferre and Courfeyrac were waiting in the hall.

“Grantaire, can I speak with you a moment?” Lamarque asked, motioning toward the chair beside his desk.

Grantaire fidgeted. “I have art class.”

“I’ll write you a note,” Lamarque said firmly. “Professor Blondel will understand.”

“Is this about sleeping in class?” Grantaire asked. “My roommate snores. I’ll hit him with a pillow or something, and it won’t happen again.”

Lamarque smiled faintly. “Glad to hear it. Have a seat, please.”

Grantaire dropped into the chair, slumped shoulders and averted eyes broadcasting his intense desire to be somewhere less hostile, like the inside of a volcano.

“I had a look at your file yesterday,” Lamarque said. “It made interesting reading. Six schools in four years.”

Grantaire rolled his eyes. “I don’t need another talk about last chances and applying myself,” he said. “I know the drill.”

“I wouldn’t dream of being so cliché,” Lamarque said. “Apply yourself. As if any eighteen-year-old has ever felt inspired by such a hackneyed directive. Your application of self is not really my business.”

“So what’d you want me for?” Grantaire looked up at him. “Just to piss off Professor Blondel?”

Lamarque waved a hand in the air. “She owes me money from the student-staff Ultimate Frisbee tournament.”

Grantaire raised one eyebrow.

“What, do you think I should tell you to watch your language? Is that how teachers gain respect from their students nowadays? By clinging to arbitrary rules designed to silence you?” He sighed. “Very well. I’d advise against that kind of language in the general vicinity of your other professors. They’ll issue demerits or feed you to hyenas or whatever draconian method of punishment is currently in fashion.” He picked up a pen and scribbled something Grantaire couldn’t read on a scrap of paper. “Take this to Professor Blondel. It reminds her of her debt and also excuses your tardiness.”

“Is that it?” Grantaire took the paper from him and stuck it in his pocket without looking at it.

“Would you rather I faked a speech about believing in you and having high expectations for your project?” Lamarque smiled. “I can arrange it if you like but I thought we’d both find it tiresome. Instead I’ll just wish you luck with it.”

Grantaire smiled back despite himself. “Thanks,” he said, and stood to leave.

“Enjolras will make a good partner for you, I think,” Lamarque mused. “You won’t let him overpower you. You’ll challenge each other. It’ll be good for both of you.”

“If you say so,” Grantaire muttered.

“Oh, and Grantaire?”

Grantaire paused in the doorway, turning to face Lamarque once more. “Yes?”

“I neither need nor desire to know about the evening or weekend activities of my students,” Lamarque said, “so if you could, in future, not be visibly hung over during my class, it would be much appreciated.” He leveled his brown eyes on Grantaire in a knowing stare. “It isn’t appropriate for me to reek of peppermint schnapps in class, and I’m of legal age.”

Grantaire said nothing, but his cheeks darkened.

“You may go.” Lamarque turned to the stack of papers on his desk, and Grantaire slipped out.

 

“I’ve checked out every book the library has that talks about homelessness in America,” Enjolras said, dropping a thick stack of books onto the table.

Grantaire stretched, limbs lazily lengthening like a cat unfurling in a sunbeam. “Good morning to you, too,” he said. “Did you bring breakfast?”

Enjolras frowned. “It’s one-thirty,” he said.

“It isn’t my fault this was the only time you were free,” Grantaire said. “Leave it to you to force me to give up a Saturday.”

“I told you I’m available before classes and every night between nine and eleven,” Enjolras pointed out.

“I can’t work when the sun isn’t working. It’s too unfair.” Grantaire shook his head.

Enjolras rolled his eyes. “The point stands.” He lowered himself into the seat opposite Grantaire. “Take a book and get started.”

“Bossy,” Grantaire muttered, but he slid a book off the stack anyway. “I can’t believe you didn’t bring me breakfast.”

“It’s one-thirty,” Enjolras repeated.

Grantaire pulled his backpack onto his lap. “I might have—ah!” He pulled out a package of peanut butter crackers. “Breakfast of champions.”

“There’s no food allowed,” Enjolras said. The study hall wasn’t reliably staffed on the weekends, and the rules were haphazardly enforced at the best of times, and Enjolras wasn’t one for blind obedience—but if Grantaire hadn’t refused to get out of bed in time to catch either of the two meals that had been served in the cafeteria already, he wouldn’t need to snack illegally.

“Live a little,” Grantaire said, offering Enjolras a cracker.

“No, thank you,” Enjolras said coldly.

Grantaire shrugged and shoved another cracker into his mouth.

The crunching set Enjolras’s teeth on edge. He forced himself to look away from the crumbs that fell from Grantaire’s mouth onto the cover of the book in front of him. “Let’s get started,” he mumbled, opening a book and flipping a few pages.

There was no movement from the boy across from him.

A low growl of impatience started itself in Enjolras’s throat. “If you aren’t going to work, why did you come?” Grantaire’s level of enthusiasm for scholastic pursuits bespoke someone who routinely blew off appointments; Enjolras had suspected he’d be working alone this afternoon. He was used to it.

“I told you I would,” Grantaire said. “I’m a man of my word.” He dusted cracker crumbs from his fingers (Enjolras tried not to think of them landing in the carpet) and reached for the book. “What am I looking for, exactly?”

“Anything that seems relevant,” Enjolras said.

 

“How’d it go?” Courfeyrac asked, the second the door was open.

“Off,” Enjolras intoned, pulling his key from the knob.

Courfeyrac rolled his eyes and slid off Enjolras’s desk. “How’d it go?” he asked again, flopping belly-first onto Enjolras’s bed.

“Fine.” Enjolras set his messenger bag on the desk and started unpacking it.

“Were any of the books useful?” Combeferre asked, smiling from his desk chair.

Enjolras smiled back. “Not really, but that was kind of useful in itself. If there isn’t much published information on the subject, that’s really all the more reason for me to explore it. There were a few articles on the internet I might use for my proposal.”

“Shouldn’t that be _our_ proposal?” Courfeyrac needled, swinging one foot in the air. “You aren’t working solo.”

“I might as well be,” Enjolras griped.

Courfeyrac raised his eyebrows and shot a look at Combeferre. “New kid not up to your exacting standards?”

“He’s got a _name_ ,” Enjolras said, brows wrinkling.

“ _Grantaire_ , then?” Courfeyrac sighed. “I don’t have to prove anything to you; I knew his name before this week.”

Enjolras held up his hands. “I thought we’d done enough teasing me about that.”

“Never.” Courfeyrac said. “Did you find out why he’s here? I could get major gossip brownie points with Fricasee if I deliver that intel.”

“I didn’t ask,” Enjolras frowned.

“You disgust me.” Courfeyrac reached under Enjolras’s bed for the stash of snacks he kept there. “I heard he’s been kicked out of every school on the east coast.”

“You can’t eat on my bed,” Enjolras warned. “Last time you left crumbs in my sheets and we got ants.”

Courfeyrac turned to Combeferre for support. “Come on, you can’t let him do me like that.”

“Sorry, you’re overruled,” Combeferre said. “We have to live here after you leave.”

Courfeyrac shook his head sadly. “Sadists,” he whined, sliding onto the floor and crossing his legs. “I’m going to bruise from the hard floor.”

“Poor baby,” Enjolras deadpanned, dropping into his chair. “He’s _useless.”_

Combeferre pursed his lips in the way he had of trying to be extra-serious to cover up his amusement. “Yes, but we love him anyway,” he said, reaching one hand to pat Courfeyrac’s hair.

 “Not _me_! Stop it, you bastard, you’ll mess up my hair!” Courfeyrac batted his hand away. “Is he that bad?”

“Worse,” Enjolras said glumly.

“Surely he isn’t that bad,” Combeferre consoled. “He didn’t blow off your meeting, did he?”

“He spent the whole time drawing cartoons in the margins of the books,” Enjolras confided. “I can’t trust him with the proposal. I want to be approved, not sent to guidance for a psych evaluation.” He opened his laptop and held the power button. “Have you started on your proposals?”

“Feuilly has,” Courfeyrac said, unwrapping a protein bar. “We did an outline together and he’s sending me a draft to look over before class on Monday.”

“What on?” Combeferre asked.

“The ignorance of industrialized society with regard to where our goods come from,” Courfeyrac recited. “We’re going to quiz people about the origin of the items on their persons—clothes, phones, lipstick—and see if they can correctly guess where and how it was made. It’s supposed to draw attention to how distanced we’ve become from manufacturing, the rights of workers, and so on.”

“That sounds really interesting,” Combeferre said.

“It does, doesn’t it?” Courfeyrac grinned, taking a bite out of his bar. “What about you?”

Combeferre lifted one shoulder in an approximation of a casual shrug. “Joly and I have turned ours in already.”

“Naturally,” Courfeyrac snarked.

“Which idea did you end up going with?” Enjolras asked, typing in his password for the third time.

“Attitudes on sexual health,” Combeferre supplied. “We’re going to go into local schools and give surveys on sexual attitudes and activities, and also knowledge of sexual health information. We aim to find out whether more open-minded individuals are more knowledgeable than their more prejudiced peers, and then see if we can reverse the effect by providing accurate information.” He adjusted his glasses.

“Aw, man, I should’ve partnered with you,” Courfeyrac moaned. “You’re going to know who all the sexually active girls are.”

Combeferre frowned. “Don’t be foul,” he said. “It’s all anonymous.”

“Leave it to you to deliberately isolate yourself from all possibilities of losing your virginity,” Courfeyrac tsked. “I am ashamed of you.”

“It would be unethical to use my project to come onto girls just because I know they have sex,” Combeferre snapped, cheeks flushing. “I’d rather date someone because I like her as a person, and not because she checked the right box on my survey.”

Courfeyrac closed his eyes. “You’re just—you’re unbelievable. Are we in a Judy Blume book?”

“What are you talking about?” Enjolras asked, looking up from his computer. “Is that a sex thing?”

“I—no, Judy Blume is not a sex thing.” Courfeyrac looked aghast. “Honestly, it’s like the pair of you were in a cocoon during the middle grades. They’re books. Girls really liked them right around the time we transitioned to the Upper School. They’re about growing up—as a girl, with, like, training bras and periods and stuff.”

“Why do you know that?” Enjolras looked back at his screen and began typing.

“How do you not know that?” Courfeyrac asked. “No, _you_ , you’re excused, but him, Mr. _I See Women As People_ , he should have been paying attention.”

Combeferre’s mouth curved in a gentle half smile. “I guess I owe you an apology. You are seemingly as interested in what goes into girls’ minds as what is in their sweaters.”

“Thank you,” Courfeyrac said, seeming gratified. “I do, indeed, pay attention to all the actions of the fairer sex.”

“I don’t think they like being called the fairer sex anymore,” Enjolras said without turning around. “I think that went out of style in like the 1950s.”

“What would you know about it?” Courfeyrac retorted, throwing his balled-up wrapper at Enjolras’s head.

Enjolras smirked. “Thankfully, nothing.”

“I’m surrounded by amateurs,” Courfeyrac sighed. “I’m going to leave. I can’t handle this right now, and Marius is probably wondering where I am.”

“Tell him hi,” Combeferre said coolly.

“If he stops freaking out about his study date with Cosette long enough for me to get a word in,” Courfeyrac promised, holding up a salute on his way out. “Stay revolutionary!”

Enjolras frowned as the door slammed after him. “Do you think he’ll ever exit a room like a human being?”

Combeferre smiled fondly. “He just does it for the attention. You know that.”

“Slam the door, or give himself a catch phrase like a cartoon villain?”

Combeferre laughed. “Yes, I think, is the answer to your question.”                  

“If only the rest of the world were as easy to win over as you,” Enjolras said. “There would never be any need for violent overthrow.”

“You don’t have to violently overthrow Grantaire for control of your project,” Combeferre pointed out. “He’s letting you do whatever you want. That’s pretty much the best case scenario for group projects.”

“He’s dead weight,” Enjolras complained. “Which I might not mind if he weren’t an absolute jerk about it. I’d rather be with you.”

Combeferre nodded sympathetically. “I know, but that attitude probably isn’t helping you get your work done.”

Enjolras looked back at his computer screen and deflated. “Do you think this could wait?” he asked hopefully.

“It can, and it should,” Combeferre agreed. “Until tomorrow. At least until after dinner. I’m guessing you didn’t eat.”

Enjolras shook his head. “I lost track of time doing research.”

“I’ll order in. Chinese or pizza?”

“Chinese,” Enjolras said.

“The usual?” Combeferre asked, already typing it into the restaurant’s online order form.

“Of course.” Enjolras leaned against the back of his chair. “What would I do without you?”

“Starve,” Combeferre chirped, and resumed clicking at his computer.

Enjolras smiled at him and pushed annoying thoughts of Grantaire and Lamarque’s project to the back of his mind.


	2. The Good and Bad Comes Through

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras and Grantaire begin working on their project. Possibly they don't hate each other. It's complicated.

Enjolras should have known it wouldn’t take long for the world to lose its order.

“What’s this?” Courfeyrac asked appraisingly when Jehan pranced into Calculus wearing a plaid skirt with a green ribbon in his hair. “Is there something you’d like to tell us?”

Jehan’s face split into a wide smile. “Do you like it? It’s for Lamarque’s class.”

Courfeyrac let out a low whistle. “I love it,” he said. “The knee socks are darling. Who lent you the uniform?”

“Cosette did,” Jehan said. “I cut the hair ribbons myself. I’m thinking about going to the store to get some silk flowers, what do you think?”

“Fabulous,” Courfeyrac said.

Jehan scribbled it in his notebook. “Any other thoughts? I have to take notes for my presentation.”

“Who’s your partner?” Enjolras asked.

“Bahorel. You know him? Big guy, bigger laugh?”

Enjolras nodded. “Is he doing it too?”

Jehan beamed. “Yep! He’s already been called a faggot by three of his wrestling team buddies and written up in two classes.”

“It’s a great examination of expressions of gender identity,” Combeferre said. “Let me know if you need help with anything.”

Enjolras set a pencil on his desk. “If I can ask… where did this idea come from?”

Jehan grinned at him. “Grantaire passed it along. He and Bahorel are friends, you know. It’s a great idea, don’t you think?”

Enjolras was almost grateful when Professor Madeleine interrupted them to begin class.

 

“You’re late.”

Grantaire held up his hands. “Don’t shoot,” he called. “I didn’t mean to offend, Your Highness, and I humbly beg pardon.”

Enjolras narrowed his eyes. “You’re trying to make this about me controlling you.”

“If the loss of my personal liberties fits,” Grantaire said, one edge of his mouth curling up. The wind toyed with his messy curls, tugging them out from under his knit cap and blowing them in front of his ears.

Enjolras’s ears, bereft of the cover of either hat or too-long hair, felt cold. “I thought you were a man of your word,” he said sourly.

“Aww, I’m touched. You were listening when I talked.” Grantaire crossed his arms in front of him for warmth. “I said I’d be here, and I’m here.”

“Half an hour late,” Enjolras reminded, thrusting the camera bag at him. “This is the camera. Don’t drop it or Professor Avery will have a conniption.”

Grantaire shouldered the bag, eyebrow quirked in mild amusement. “Are you sure you trust me with anything so valuable? Your grade and your reputation are at stake.”

“My shoulder is sore,” Enjolras explained irritably. “It wouldn’t be an issue if you’d been on time.”

Grantaire’s eyes flicked over Enjolras, taking in his khaki pants, red button-down and navy pea coat. “You get a day out of uniform and that’s what you wear?”

Enjolras squirmed. “That’s not relevant,” he snapped. “Can we get on with it?”

Grantaire laughed, throwing back his head and exposing his throat above the collar of his sweatshirt. “You got it, Captain America.” He hitched the camera bag up his shoulder and nudged Enjolras’s ankle with the toe of his Chuck Taylor. “Where to?”

“There’s a soup kitchen on Twelfth,” Enjolras said. “Unless you have a better idea?”

Grantaire shook his head. “Oh, no, I’m just here to do your bidding. This is all you.”

Enjolras sighed. “Okay, then. To Twelfth.”

“After you.” Grantaire made a sweeping gesture with one arm.

Enjolras spared his black skinny jeans one last withering look before starting off in the direction of the soup kitchen.

 

As if this project hadn’t found enough ways to disappoint him far beyond his lowest expectations, no one would so much as make eye contact with them.

“This would be a lot less frustrating if we could fail _inside_ ,” Grantaire whined.

“They don’t want us making people uncomfortable in a safe space,” Enjolras said for the eighth time, as he wound his scarf more tightly around his neck. He might have been strangling himself; in this cold, it was difficult to feel anything except annoyance. “At least we have dorm rooms with heaters to look forward to afterward.”

“Don’t remind me,” Grantaire said bitterly. “It’s all I can do to keep from bolting as it is—wait, is someone coming out?”

Someone was.

“Sir,” Enjolras said. “Sir, we’re students at McAuliffe Academy, and—damn.”

The man’s eyes had widened in fear and he’d backed away before Enjolras had made it through even the first sentence of his pitch. Sadly, this wasn’t the earliest he’d been cut off.

“You’re going to break a tooth,” Grantaire said.

“They’re my teeth and I’ll do with them what I please,” Enjolras growled through a jaw tensed against the wind. At least his teeth weren’t chattering anymore. One more derisive comment on that topic, and he was likely to have to contact his father’s lawyer about a murder trial. At least he’d probably be eligible for a temporary insanity defense.

Grantaire huffed out a breath that fogged up in front of his face. It almost sounded like a chuckle. “What do you say to a hot cup of coffee?” he asked, sizing Enjolras up out of the corner of one eye.

Enjolras waved a hand back toward the soup kitchen behind them. “We’ve got work to do.”

“And we’re making such progress.” He seemed to notice the tightening of Enjolras’s shoulders, and he sighed. “Just a little break, come on. Warm up and reframe the battle plan.”

Enjolras bit the inside of his cheek. Was this a plot to get out of work or an honest offer? Combeferre had often told him that breaks make for more efficient work. On the other hand, Grantaire could hardly be counted on to make an unselfish decision. Back to the first hand, though, his fingers were numb enough that he ran the risk of dropping the camera and having to pay to replace it, which meant a call to his father, always unpleasant…

Grantaire laughed. “For that face, I’m buying. I know a place.”

The place was on Fourteenth Street. Joly would never have eaten anything that came out of that kitchen, but Enjolras was thankful enough just for the warmth.

“You seem like a coffee drinker, am I right?” Grantaire asked, handing him a mug full of hot liquid. “I bet you’ve been hooked on caffeine since pre-K.”

“Just since ninth grade, actually,” Enjolras said. “Thanks,” he added quietly.

“No problem,” Grantaire said. “Do you need—“

“Black,” Enjolras said. He didn’t have the patience to experiment with creamer and he’d never been a sugar person—just the coffee, thanks, and he’d get right back to work.

Grantaire raised his eyebrows and took a sip from his own mug. “Hardcore,” he said. “I can’t speak to its quality—I’m more of a hot chocolate guy, myself—but there are regulars, so it probably won’t kill you.”

“Comforting,” Enjolras said, sipping his coffee. It was good; the surprise must have shown on his face, because Grantaire wiggled his eyebrows cockily over the rim of his mug.

“Better than school’s,” Grantaire said smugly.

Enjolras shrugged and set it on the table, wrapping his frozen fingers around the mug for warmth. “The coffee at school isn’t that bad,” he said. “Not this hot, though.”

“This convenient, either.” Grantaire licked a line of foam off his lips.

Enjolras cleared his throat and looked away. “Okay. You mentioned changing tactics, and I think that’s a good idea. We’re clearly not getting anywhere, so we should try a different location. I think—“

“Wait,” Grantaire said, waving his hand in front of Enjolras’s face. “Aren’t you going to ask for my opinion?”

“I thought you were just along for the ride?” Enjolras said, brow wrinkling. “We can’t go back to school yet, we haven’t even started—“

“Did I say anything about giving up?” Grantaire asked. “No. I did not. Because I know someone who might be able to help us.” He peeked at Enjolras from under his eyelashes as he stirred his hot chocolate with one finger.

Enjolras forced his mouth closed. “Well,” he said, keeping his voice as measured and calm as he could, “could you call him?”

Grantaire smirked. “Actually, I called her while you were in the bathroom,” he said. “She’s just about to walk in the door.” He waved at someone behind Enjolras.

Enjolras turned to see a girl in a shiny purple jacket and combat boots over ripped leggings. She ran her fingers through her long messy dark hair as she came toward them, then stopped when she saw Enjolras.

“R,” she said as she narrowed her eyeliner-rimmed eyes. “You didn’t tell me _he’d_ be here.”

Her voice, low and husky, was familiar. And if he squinted… “Thenardier?” he gasped.

Grantaire’s eyes darted back and forth between them, lips twitching into a smile. “You two know each other.”

“We used to be in school together,” Eponine supplied. “Until I transferred out of that elitist hellhole in eighth grade.” She stared at the scuffed toes of her boots. “I didn’t agree to help him.”

Grantaire blinked at Enjolras over her head. “No, but you agreed to help me,” he said, grabbing her hands. “I don’t have a chance of making this work without you, you know that.”

An idea trickled down the back of Enjolras’s neck, as cold and terrible as the outside wind. “Is she—“

“I’m not _homeless_ ,” Eponine snapped, snatching her hands back from Grantaire’s. “Jesus Christ, no wonder no one will talk to you.”

“Eppie,” Grantaire drawled, shooting Enjolras a dark look. “This is your city, you know _everyone_ , surely you know somebody who’d tell us a story or two.”

“I might,” she said, chewing her bottom lip.

“And you know I’m honest,” he said. “Nobody would have to say anything they weren’t comfortable with, and it would end up in the film exactly how they want it.”

Eponine nodded slowly. “Houseless,” she said finally. “Not homeless. The city’s our home, okay?”

“Okay,” Grantaire said. “You got it. Houseless. Anything else we should know before we start filming?”

Grantaire was possibly not the worst partner of all time.

 

“Don’t look at me like that,” Enjolras said.

“But he’s alone,” Jehan whined.

“He has friends,” Enjolras said. “I’m not one of them.”

“They aren’t here,” Jehan said. “The whole table’s empty.”

Enjolras sighed. “Maybe he wants to be alone.”

“No one wants to be alone in a high school cafeteria,” Courfeyrac said.

“No one asked you,” Enjolras told him.

Courfeyrac shrugged. “Sorry, it’s true.”

“Invite him over if you want it so much,” Enjolras said.

“You’re the one who knows him,” Jehan pleaded. “It would be weird if I did it.”

“And you’re so worried about being weird,” Courfeyrac said, tweaking the fabric sunflower clipped in Jehan’s hair.

Jehan swatted his hand away. “Not helping.”

“I thought your first day of filming had gone well,” Combeferre said mildly, setting his tray down at Enjolras’s left.

“It was okay,” Enjolras said. “He’s still an asshole, but he did get us an in with the community. I’m cautiously hopeful.”

“The homeless have a community?” Courfeyrac asked.

“Homeless isn’t the preferred term,” Enjolras informed him. “Houseless, apparently, is less dehumanizing.”

Combeferre nodded thoughtfully. “Interesting. I guess it makes sense, if home is where the heart is, that in some ways we’re implying they belong less just because they don’t have four walls and a roof—“

“What’s _dehumanizing_ is letting Grantaire eat lunch by himself,” Jehan interrupted. “You said you’re cautiously hopeful. Wouldn’t asking him over be a nice olive branch?”

Enjolras looked to Combeferre.

“He does look lonely,” Combeferre said. “But if you’d rather not, I defer to your judgment.”

Enjolras sighed. “Fine. I’ll ask. But it isn’t my fault if he doesn’t want to, okay?”

“Oh, it’ll be your fault,” Courfeyrac snickered. “I promise.”

Enjolras straightened his blazer and closed the distance between his table and Grantaire’s.

Grantaire didn’t look up from what he was scribbling in his sketch pad.

“Um,” Enjolras said, shifting on the balls of his feet. “Hi.”

Grantaire’s head snapped up and he closed the pad quickly. “Hello,” he said, eyes wary. “Can I help you with something?”

“Well,” Enjolras swallowed. “We—that is, my friends and I— ” he waved a hand back towards them (Courfeyrac waved back) “—we noticed you were—I mean, we wanted to know if you wanted to eat lunch with us.”

“Is this a dare?” Grantaire asked. “Did you lose a bet?”

Enjolras’s face felt hot. “Forget it,” he said, turning away.

“No, I—are you sure your friends won’t mind?” Grantaire smiled. It was more timid than his usual smile, and Enjolras tentatively interpreted it as an offer of truce.

“My friends are nicer than I am,” Enjolras said. “They’d be thrilled.”

Grantaire’s smile softened and he slid his sketch pad into his backpack and stood up. “Then I’m honored,” he said, lifting his lunch tray easily in one hand.

“Sit here,” Courfeyrac said, motioning to a seat rather unnecessarily; it was the only open one remaining at the table. “I’m Courfeyrac.”

“Yes, I know,” Grantaire said. “You’re famous.”

“Not as famous as you,” Courfeyrac preened.

Enjolras scowled. “He’s not an animal in a zoo,” he chided.

Combeferre laid a hand on his arm.

“It’s fine,” Grantaire said. “I’ve been new before.”

“Marius was really glad you transferred in,” Courfeyrac said, leaning in. “He’d been the new kid since eighth grade.”

Grantaire raised his eyebrows. “Was he still an outsider four years later?”

Jehan shrugged. “It can be kind of tight. Most of us have been here since boarding started. Seventh grade. Some even longer.”

Courfeyrac stretched, wrapping his arm around Enjolras’s shoulders. “Combeferre and Enjolras and I have been part of the class since grade one.”

Enjolras slapped his hand away.

“You’re local?” Grantaire asked. “Why didn’t I know that?”

Enjolras lifted a shoulder. “It didn’t come up.”

“Why board?” he asked. “If my parents lived in the state, I think I’d rather have a room to myself than cafeteria food.”

Combeferre nudged Enjolras’s knee under the table. “It’s convenient,” he volunteered. “Technically we’re only boarders five days a week, but the school doesn’t care if we stay to get more work done.”

“I go home for weekends more than they do,” Courfeyrac said. “But it’s boring there. My sisters are away at college, and my mom is always busy with some event or other. All my friends live here.” He smiled.

“The rest of us went somewhere else until sixth grade,” Feuilly said. “Then we applied for, you know, admission and financial aid and whatever…” Feuilly’s uniform was faded and fraying at the hems, and an inch too short for him in the legs and arms. Two full years older than the ones on his friends, by Grantaire’s judgment. A scholarship kid, then—poor, but lucky enough to get to go to a prestigious private school.

Luckier than Eponine had been when her family had lost their fortune.

“Except Marius,” Grantaire said smoothly.

Courfeyrac nodded. “Marius’s grandfather pulled strings, I think.”

Combeferre, perhaps sensing that this was too close to a sensitive subject, cleared his throat. “So, Grantaire, are you liking it at McAuliffe?”

“It’s fine,” Grantaire said. “I’ve been here half a semester already. It’s not that different from my last school.”

Combeferre nodded politely.

“Better food, though,” Grantaire said, smiling.

“It wasn’t always,” Jehan said. “They never used to provide vegetarian options until the protest last year.”

“Protest?” Grantaire caught Enjolras’s eye with a wicked gleam in his own.

Enjolras choked on his water. “He doesn’t want to hear about that.” He coughed, and Combeferre clapped him on the back.

“Yes, I do,” Grantaire said, nudging Enjolras’s ankle with his foot. “I very much do.”

Feuilly laughed. “It was so great. Enjolras stood on a table and led the cafeteria in a chant—“

“How did it go?” Courfeyrac sighed, looking to the ceiling. “Something about healthy choices, I know that.”

“It _rhymed_ ,” Jehan added. “I remember that. I’ll have to tell you later,” he said, smiling ruefully at Grantaire. “I’ve got it all written up in my journal, but I can’t remember off the top of my head.”

“—and the students even got kind of into it,” Feuilly continued. “Usually they ignore him, but I guess they were really interested in the cause.”

“The administration was furious,” Combeferre said, adjusting his glasses. “Which was satisfying in its own way.”

“They did give in to our demands,” Enjolras muttered darkly.

“But not without writing a strongly-worded letter to your parents,” Courfeyrac reminded him. “And putting you in detention for two weeks.”

“It made a great application essay for Hamline, though,” Combeferre said.

“It was a great essay if I get in,” Enjolras said. “Otherwise it’s just an essay.”

Grantaire cocked his head to the side. “I’m kind of impressed you’re even still in school,” he said. “Given your apparent history of stirring up trouble.”

“Technically, he isn’t,” Courfeyrac said, with a thoughtful quirk to his mouth.

“Courfeyrac—” Combeferre warned.

“Oh?” Grantaire asked, voice rising in pitch. The look he flicked at Enjolras might have included a mischievous tongue flick.

Enjolras hoped his hand at Combeferre’s wrist appropriately conveyed his request for a list of the symptoms of an aneurysm.

“I mean, if you want to be technical, Enjolras failed the tenth grade,” Courfeyrac said, very casually. “He wouldn’t be here at all if his dad hadn’t paid for the renovation of the east wing of the library.”

“You failed a grade?” Grantaire chortled incredulously. “You?”

“It was a statement,” Enjolras pressed through gritted teeth.

Feuilly looked down at his plate. (This was a sore spot for Feuilly, who had never approved of the plan on account of education being a privilege few were given the chance to waste.)

“Enjolras was making a point about the insufficiency of grades to determine a person’s learning,” Combeferre said. “It very nearly worked.”

“The only thing it did was make Javert hate him even more,” Courfeyrac said. “Because he wouldn’t take tests or do his homework, but he knew all the answers in class discussion and he’d sit at the back interrupting everyone. It was awful. He made Professor Avery cry.”

Enjolras shifted uncomfortably. “I had to meet with the guidance counselor every week for a year. I would classify it as a failed attempt.”

Grantaire laughed; under the table, Enjolras felt the soft trill of Grantaire’s foot against his leg.

After a moment, he pulled back.

The bell rang.

“To Lamarque’s?” he asked, standing and smiling brightly at the table of people he was going to murder.

 

“I hope you’re all making progress on your projects,” Lamarque said. “Remember, you only have six more weeks to disrupt the kyriarchy, write an essay about it, and present your findings to the class. It isn’t a project I’d recommend leaving to the last minute.” He fixed a student toward the back of his room with a look.

“Read the Outsiders before Friday, please,” Lamarque called out over the sound of the bell. “Don’t try to watch the movie instead; I’ll know, and I’ll fail you.” He sat at his desk and watched the students file out.

“Enjolras,” he said. “Can you stay for a minute?”

Enjolras waved his friends off and walked to the desk. He wasn’t afraid of being asked to stay after class like Marius was. By this point in his education, he was immune to the bitter effects of professorial disappointment.

“What do you need?” he asked, eyes bright and voice carefully neutral.

“Just checking on your progress,” Lamarque said with a smile. “I recall your proposal being rather ambitious, and I wanted to make sure you were on track.”

Enjolras raised his eyebrows. “Shouldn’t Grantaire be here for this conversation?”

Lamarque shook his head. “It isn’t a criminal trial, Enjolras,” he said gently. “You don’t need witnesses.”

“Things are fine,” Enjolras said. “We’re doing another interview this afternoon, and a final one on Friday. We should have our film edited and ready to go way ahead of time.”

“Good,” Lamarque said. “You’ll need the camera the rest of the week, then?”

Enjolras nodded. “That isn’t a problem, is it?”

“Not at all,” Lamarque said. “I just have to let Professor Avery know where his equipment is.”

Enjolras waited.

“That’s it, then,” Lamarque said. “Unless you have anything to say to me?”

“Like what?”

Lamarque shrugged. “Questions, comments. Problems you’re having.”

Enjolras shook his head. “No, everything’s fine. Thanks.”

“Okay. See you on Friday. Close the door on your way out.”

 

Grantaire screwed the camera into the tripod. “Okay,” he said. “I think we’re ready.”

“All right,” Enjolras sighed, turning to their subject with a smile that felt too rigid for his face. “We’re going to turn the camera on, and you’ll tell your story, just like we rehearsed it. Do you have any questions?”

“No,” Gavroche said, eyeing him with an expression that looked like pity. “I’ve got it.”

“You’ll be great,” Grantaire said, with a smile that looked a lot more natural than Enjolras’s felt. “And once you’re a big movie star, you’ll be able to get a date with whoever you want.”

“Girls are gross,” Gavroche said.

“I didn’t say whatever _girl_ you want,” Grantaire teased. “There are some lovely boys out there who would be lucky to date a charming young gentleman like yourself.”

Enjolras’s stomach turned over. He busied himself adjusting the already-perfect camera angle.

“That’s gross too,” Gavroche said. “Can we start now?”

“Sure,” Enjolras said, taking a deep breath. “Take breaks if you need to, and if you mess up and have to start over, that’s okay. It’s your story, and we’ll go with it until you’re satisfied it’s right.”

Gavroche nodded.

“And… go whenever you’re ready.”

Gavroche straightened in the chair. He wore a hat with bunny ears on it over an orange zip-up hoodie—his favorite outfit, according to Eponine. She stood in the back corner to supervise, compliant with what Lamarque had advised them about interviewing minors.

“People always think you need food and clothes,” Gavroche began. “But food and clothes are really easy to get. What we really need is a good backpack…”

While Gavroche talked to the camera, Grantaire relaxed against the back of his chair, arm thrown over the back of Enjolras’s.

Enjolras’s focus was definitely on Gavroche, and not on the way the hairs on the back of his neck prickled against Grantaire’s warm skin. Definitely not.

And if he thought about it all that night, warm against his sheets… well, that wasn’t anyone’s business either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is taking longer than I anticipated, but I'm planning for four chapters and am excited to get this one out to you.


	3. I'll Be What You Need

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leading up to spring break, not a lot of work gets done. Grantaire gets detention. Enjolras goes to a party. One of these things is more surprising than the other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! I could get into the whys and wherefores of it, but it's all a bit tl;dr. I started this chapter five times on four different interfaces, but I borrowed this computer long enough to knock it out, so here it is!

“Are you doing something important over there?”

Enjolras knew the answer to the question before he asked it, but it seemed more polite than asserting, once again, that Grantaire was useless (he _had_ promised Combeferre he’d try).

“No,” Grantaire intoned, not looking up from the notebook that had held his attention for the better part of an hour while Enjolras reviewed footage.

It would have been so easy for Enjolras to let his frayed patience finally snap, to kick Grantaire out of study hall and do the work himself. He couldn’t, after all, have been blamed for not making an effort.

Instead, he exhaled very slowly. “Would you please consider paying attention to Mr. Mabeuf’s video?” It was Enjolras’s favorite of the testimonials they’d shot—an elderly gentleman who’d lost his wife, his business, and his condo all in the same winter.

Grantaire still didn’t spare him a glance. “Yes.”

Enjolras rubbed the back of his neck. “Doesn’t that involve looking at it?”

“Said I’d consider it,” Grantaire hummed, pencil in his hand moving rapidly. “I decided not to.”

Enjolras closed the viewing screen on the camera and craned his neck to peer over the edge of the table at the pad in Grantaire’s lap. “What’re you—oh.” The page was covered in an elaborate drawing of Mr. Mabeuf’s face, from his thin hair to the sad eyes set deep in his wrinkled face, to the ratty scarf wound around his neck and the gnarled fingers of one weather-beaten hand that was adjusting it. “That’s… wow. Really good, actually.”

“It’s a shock, I know.” Grantaire snapped the notebook shut. “I’ve changed my mind on the attention question,” he said, smooth voice not at all matching the frustrated reddish tinge to his ears. “But only because that’s the first time I’ve heard you say please, ever.”

“I say please,” Enjolras protested.

“Combeferre says it for you,” Grantaire corrected. “That’s not the same thing. Which parts of the video were you planning on using?”

“I like the part in the middle where he talked about the kindness of his former assistant.” Enjolras chewed his lip. “I didn’t know you drew.”

“I don’t,” Grantaire said, rolling his eyes. “Can we skip the part where you pretend to be interested in anything other than getting your project done? I think you should keep the end. When he cries.” So Grantaire had paid some attention after all.

“I was worried it might be too exploitative.” Enjolras looked away, ignoring the heat rising in his cheeks.

“It’s authentic,” Grantaire said. “It’s raw. It’s impactful.” He leaned back in his chair. “My dad thinks it’s a waste of time,” he volunteered, slowly, almost as an afterthought.

“You don’t,” Enjolras said.

Grantaire shrugged. “No more so than insurance. At least art makes someone happy.” His tone of voice almost made Enjolras ask who; _he_ certainly didn’t sound very happy.

“It’s good,” Enjolras said again. “And so’s the thing about the crying. I’ll think about it.”

“Thanks.” A ghost of a smile flickered across Grantaire’s face. “Are we done?”

Enjolras cleared his throat. “Yeah. Uh. Can you meet Tuesday at five? We can transfer and edit the footage then so everything will be ready for the presentation. Then we can spend the time after spring break writing our papers.”

“Sounds good.” Grantaire didn’t move. “You should get some sleep. You look kind of tired.”

“I’m fine,” Enjolras said, smothering an awkwardly-timed yawn.

“Whatever.” Grantaire stood, slinging his bag over one shoulder. “See you in class.”

Enjolras took ten minutes to get himself together enough to leave the study hall. 

 

“Hey,” a hoarse voice came from behind Grantaire. “Hey, Grantaire!”

It was a whisper that carried urgency; he turned, cautiously, to the left. No one had interrupted class to talk to him since two schools ago. Maybe three. He hadn’t wasted enough time to make friends in a while—he got straight to the business of getting kicked out.

“Psst. Hey,” Courfeyrac whispered, leaning over his desk. “Over here.”

Grantaire’s eyes darted to Professor Javert, who was drawing a chart of verb conjugations on the board.

“What?” he hissed.

“Don’t worry, he won’t catch us,” Courfeyrac said. “Just be quiet.” He shook his head, evidently amused by Grantaire’s cluelessness, and held up his phone.

Grantaire took the hint from the waving phone and pulled his own out of his pocket. He had a text from an unknown number: **I wanted to say THANK YOU.**

“For what?” Grantaire murmured out of the corner of his mouth. (On the board, Javert was conjugating _vouloir_ in the subjunctive.)

Courfeyrac’s head bent over his phone, thumbs working furiously.

Grantaire’s phone vibrated in his hand.

 **For being asleep in class when Lamarque assigned partners.** Courfeyrac grinned.

Grantaire typed a response. **Don’t thank me. Thank Bahorel’s alcohol stash. How did you get my number?**

 **I have my ways. Marius is happier than he’s been since I met him,** Courfeyrac replied. **He’s had a crush on Cosette forever. She really likes him too, I think. He might have a chance with her when the project is over, and he owes it all to your hangover. And Cosette’s giving heart. But mostly you.**

 **I’m happy for them both,** Grantaire wrote, **but I’m not really responsible for your roommate’s happiness.**

He hid his phone under his desk and waited.

**Even E is happier with you around.**

Grantaire choked.

The little noise, unfortunately, was enough to draw Javert’s attention. “Something you want to share with the class?”

“No, sir,” Grantaire coughed, scrambling to stow his phone in his pocket.

But it was too late; he’d been spotted.

“You know the rules about phones in class,” Javert said, stony face settling into a heavy frown.

“Sorry, sir,” Grantaire muttered. “I was typing in French, if it helps?”

It was the wrong thing to say if he was hoping for lenience; some teachers were charmed by a well-placed joke, but when a ripple of laughter spread along the classroom and Javert’s brow furrowed, he knew he was in trouble. It was a place he had been many (many, many) times before, but he never really got good at predicting it until it was too late.

“You may have the two hours of detention this afternoon to think about why it does not, in fact, help,” Javert said.

Grantaire groaned. “Please, sir, it won’t happen again, but I can’t do today, I—“

“Can and will,” Javert said firmly. “You will just have to move your social engagements, which I neither know nor care to know. I’ll see you at four. Phone, please.”

Grantaire gaped.

“Rules,” Javert said humorlessly. “You can have it back after detention, come on.”

Grantaire set the phone in Javert’s outstretched hand. He glowered over his shoulder at Courfeyrac, who shrugged. Slippery bastard.

So much for Enjolras not hating him.

 

“ _Zip a dee doo dah, zip a dee ay_ ,” Grantaire sang as he entered the near-empty study hall. “ _My oh my what a wonderful day. Plenty of sunshi_ —are you okay?”

Enjolras glared at him from where his head was lying on the table. “That song comes from an undeniably racist movie,” he said.

“ _Someone_ isn’t feeling as joyous as he should that it’s a great day to be young and free,” Grantaire quipped. “Besides, I’m too great a singer to deny the world my voice.” He perched on the edge of the table next to Enjolras. “Seriously, though, are you okay? You look even more ragged than Sunday. Have you slept? You didn’t even mention how late I am. Detention, by the way.”

“Oh, you’re late,” Enjolras said wearily, rubbing his temple. Courfeyrac might have said something about detention earlier. He was having trouble remembering.

“No yelling? Now I know you’re not okay.”

“I don’t yell,” Enjolras huffed, picking his head up ever so slightly to look at the computer screen in front of him.

“Sure you do.” Grantaire closed the computer in one smooth motion.

“Stop that,” Enjolras complained. Even to himself it sounded weaker than usual, but he hoped Grantaire didn’t notice. “I’m _working_.”

“No, you’re resting,” Grantaire corrected. “You just really suck at it.” He pushed himself off the table and offered Enjolras a hand. “Come on.”

“Where are we going?” Enjolras asked, getting blearily to his feet.

“ _You’re_ going home,” Grantaire supplied, sliding Enjolras’s camera bag over his right shoulder and offering his left to Enjolras for support. “Preferably to bed. And I’m going to walk you so you don’t fall down any stairs.”

“It’s _midterms_ ,” Enjolras whined, pressing the heel of his hand into his eye socket. “I’m fine.”

“Mm-hmm,” Grantaire hummed, steering Enjolras toward the door. “And you’ll be finer after some rest.”

Enjolras shook his head. It created the unpleasant sensation that his brain was sloshing heavily between his ears. “We were going to finish our film,” he said.

“Later,” Grantaire promised. “It’ll get finished.”

“Always happens,” Enjolras muttered. “I can never stay on top of it all.”

Grantaire’s mouth twisted into a sad smile. “Open your eyes. There are stairs next.”

Somehow—Enjolras would never be entirely sure how—they made it to his door.

“You know which room is mine?” Enjolras asked.

Grantaire laughed. “Everyone knows which room is yours. Do you have your key or should I start screaming for Combeferre?”

“Don’t scream,” Enjolras begged, blinking against the lights in the hall that were making his eyes water. “It’s here somewhere, I just—“

The door swung open.

“Oh, thank God,” Grantaire breathed. “I hoped you were here. Your stupid roommate is sick or something. I don’t know what’s wrong with him—should I have taken him to the nurse?”

“No,” Combeferre said, settling a hand on Grantaire’s shoulder. “You did fine. I’ll take it from here.” He took the camera bag from Grantaire’s shoulder and opened the door wider for Enjolras to slump through. “It’s early this semester, but I guess it is midterms. He’ll be fine. Thanks for bringing him home.”

“Uh, feel better, I guess,” Grantaire said, and he left.

Combeferre shut the door softly behind him. “Did you take your pill already?”

“Too much to do,” Enjolras panted, collapsing into bed and shutting his eyes. The headache was really setting in now.

Combeferre nodded; he’d expected as much. “I’ll get you one, if it isn’t too late.”

It was a question, but Enjolras could only make an indistinct noise as an answer.

Combeferre sighed. “You do this to yourself every time,” he said, turning the lights out. “Rest.”

 

Enjolras wasn’t in class on Wednesday.

Lamarque stood at the front of the classroom, drawing student names from a fishbowl on his desk to decide who to call on for definitions to terms like _proletariat_  and _laissez-faire_ , in what counted for midterm review in his course. When he drew Enjolras’s name, he just set it aside with no ceremony and drew another.

Cosette answered the question beautifully, but that didn’t untie the knot in Grantaire’s stomach.

He stared at the empty seat in front of Courfeyrac the whole period.

After class, he ran to catch up to Combeferre in the hall. “Hey,” he said, grabbing Combeferre’s elbow. “Is Enjolras okay?”

Combeferre tilted his head. His eyes behind his glasses were kind and a little pitying. “He’s down with a migraine. He gets them when he doesn’t sleep. He’ll be all right in a day or two.”

Grantaire’s lips pursed up. “Is there anything I can do?”

Combeferre shook his head. “Has to run its course, I’m afraid,” he said, patting Grantaire on the shoulder. “He’ll be fine, I promise. He’s seen worse than this. I’ll tell him you asked about him.” He turned and walked off, meeting Marius on their way to German class.

Grantaire’s phone had three texts waiting from Courfeyrac.

**You’re going to melt the plastic on that chair with your telekinetic powers if you keep intensing at it like that.**

**Oh right, you don’t text in class anymore.**

**He’s fine, jfc. Get a life!**

Enjolras returned to class on Friday for the last of his exams, still sore in the shoulders, but not willing to make up midterms after spring break because of a headache, postdrome be damned. He thought he’d done well, but he couldn’t be sure—he could be tired and confused for days after the pain had passed.

“Enjolras,” Lamarque said when he turned his exam paper in. “Talk in the hall a moment?”

“Is something wrong, Professor?” he asked, leaning against a wall.

“I only wanted to see if everything was all right. You still look a little sick,” Lamarque said. “You could make up your exam if you needed to; you know that.”

Enjolras nodded. “Not necessary. But thank you.”

“Some of your classmates were worried,” Lamarque said blithely.

That was confusing. His friends knew how he got at exam times, and the ones who weren’t his friends—well, he wasn’t an idiot. He knew how his classmates felt about him.

“Are you going home for the break?” Lamarque asked. Lamarque knew about his family; everyone did, really. They were kind of hard to miss.

“I don’t think Mother would like it if I didn’t at least stop by,” he said. “She knows I don’t have homework, and I don’t think I have two weeks of excuses.”

Lamarque smiled. “My sympathies,” he said. “You don’t have another exam after this, do you?”

Enjolras shook his head. “This was my last.”

“Then your assignment from me is to get some rest,” Lamarque said. “You’ll need it.”

Enjolras laughed. “Thanks.”

“Have a good break,” Lamarque said gently.

“You too.”

 

Enjolras meant to keep his promise and sleep for at least twelve hours. He did.

Combeferre had already gone home, so the room was his. It shouldn’t have been a problem.

He went back to his room, set his alarm for six AM, laid a cool cloth over his eyes, and went to sleep.

But he woke up at eleven-thirty to an unfamiliar noise. It took a minute to place it as the sound his phone made when he got texts.

**Where r u? Were partyin at  
** **Bahorewels nd I kno u havent  
** **left campus**

Enjolras yawned, but more out of reflex than because he was still tired.

                                                                                                                              **Who is this?**

**Dnt u thnk its wired tht we ddnt  
** **xchanng nimbrs? WHst ff i nnded  
** **too call u? Bad partner.**

Enjolras bit back a smile.

                                                                                                                          **Who gave you my number?**

**Coirefrfsc GOD his name is  
** **keysmash**

**Come to Bshorels, its fun  
** **Let off steam after exms  
** **FUN**

Enjolras made a note to have a talk with Courfeyrac about giving out other people’s phone numbers. It wasn’t appropriate that someone he didn’t even like was inviting him to a party.

But part of him wanted to go, he realized.

Courfeyrac was going to be so smug about this.

He got up and put on a pair of jeans and a red button-down. He splashed some cold water on his face and looked at himself in the mirror. Still a little pale, but there was nothing to be done about that. He ran his fingers through his hair and tamed it a little before pronouncing it good enough (after all, it wasn’t like he cared what these people thought of him, he reminded himself).

Then he rethought the button-down and found a white shirt with a black and gray pinstriped vest in the back of his closet. It was probably Courfeyrac’s; Enjolras remembered him having a vest-and-fedora phase last fall, complete with fake glasses. After he rolled up the sleeves of the shirt, it didn’t look too bad.

When he arrived at the party, he found he didn’t know what to do. His classmates had been throwing these illegal parties in the dorms for years—he didn’t have the first idea how they got the supplies for it—but he’d always looked down his nose at them. He barely even knew most of the people he could see, but Courfeyrac was around here somewhere.

“Do you know where the joint went?” Fricassee asked. Her eyes were huge and black, and she didn’t seem to recognize him.

“No, sorry,” he said, shaking his head. “Have you seen—“

“Hey!” Courfeyrac draped himself around Enjolras’s shoulders. “I don’t think I’ve taken any hallucinogens tonight—did someone kidnap you?”

“I came of own volition,” Enjolras assured him. “I shouldn’t stay long, though.”

“My little baby is all grown up,” Courfeyrac said, squeezing his shoulders. “Dragging himself out to ruin a whole new generation of parties. I could cry.”

“Shove it,” Enjolras laughed. “It isn’t so bad.”

“Only because you’re barely inside,” Courfeyrac said. “You need a babysitter. Make sure you don’t get into any trouble.”

Enjolras shook his head. “I don’t need a babysitter.”

“You only think that because you haven’t been into the actual party yet. Wait until the Cupid Shuffle starts playing. You won’t know what hit you.” Courfeyrac squinted. “Is that my vest?”

“You can be my babysitter,” Enjolras sighed. “But I’m not going to be here long enough to find out what the Cupid Shuffle is.”

“Me?” Courfeyrac’s eyebrows threatened to merge with his hairline. “No. No no. I’m already supervising Marius. I’m way too busy to—oh, R! Come here!”

“You came!” Grantaire elbowed his way between two junior girls to get to Enjolras.

“I hardly think he’s in any state to babysit anyone,” Enjolras murmured into Courfeyrac’s ear.

“Shush,” Courfeyrac hissed. “So, my friend here’s a little new to the party scene. He needs a capable veteran to show him what’s what. Will you keep an eye on him for me?”

“If he permits it.” Grantaire’s cheeks were flushed and his eyes bright, but other than speaking a little more loudly than usual, he didn’t seem anywhere near as drunk as his texting had made out. He settled his hand on the exposed skin of Enjolras’s forearm in greeting. “Didn’t think you’d come.”

“How could I resist such a tempting invitation?” Enjolras asked coolly. “Are you always that charming in writing?” He felt Grantaire’s thumb moving in circles on his wrist. He decided not to look; it was hard enough to think of the appropriate thing to say as it was.

As if sensing his shift in focus, Grantaire retracted his hand. “I, uh, just thought you should come to the party. You… deserve a night off.”

Courfeyrac looked between them, his face unreadable. “You kids have fun,” he said. “I have a Marius and a Cosette to get together, and I hear they’re starting a game of Twister next door. If you’ll excuse me.” He wound his way through the crowd until Enjolras’s eyes could no longer follow him.

Grantaire held up the bottle of wine in his hand. “Want a drink?”

Enjolras shook his head quickly. “No, I shouldn’t,” he said. “Not on my medication.” He smiled in apology.

“Right,” Grantaire muttered. “Right.” He tipped his head back and drank from the bottle himself, Adam’s apple bobbing with every swallow.

Enjolras coughed awkwardly into his knuckles. “So.”

This was starting to seem like a dumb idea.

“I should—“ _go,_ he meant to say, but something in Grantaire’s face stopped him.

“I’m glad you’re not sick anymore. I was worried about you,” Grantaire said. “No. Not right. I missed you.”

Enjolras smiled. It felt fake and brittle on his face. “I’m sorry about that,” he said. “I really wanted us to get the video edited before—“

And then he didn’t say anything, because Grantaire’s face was in the way.

The kiss was over before it had even properly started. Enjolras recoiled like he’d been shocked (which, of course, he had).

“What are you _doing_?” he asked.

Grantaire flinched.

“Sorry, I know what you were doing, I just—“

“No, I’m sorry.” Grantaire said. “Never mind.” He gulped down the last of the bottle in his hand and set the empty on the table behind them. “I’ll find Courfeyrac for you, okay?”

He was gone before Enjolras could open his mouth to voice any of the thoughts that were racing through his head.

He didn’t know how long he stood there, waiting for his chance to explain, before Courfeyrac sidled over to him.

“Grantaire said you were looking for me,” Courfeyrac said, his face and voice an unanswerable question. “You don’t look good. Are you okay?”

Enjolras shook his head. “No, actually, I feel kind of—“ There wasn’t a word for how he was feeling. “I think I’ll go lie down.”

Courfeyrac frowned. “You need anything?”

“No. I’m just not… ready for all this, I think. Enjoy your party.” He waved off Courfeyrac’s concerned expression and didn’t meet his eyes as he turned away to leave.

Courfeyrac would shrug it off. He was always malleable after a few drinks.

Enjolras spent the rest of the night wide awake, confused about why he felt near tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit to the lovely re_repeat for the idea of Mabeuf being one of the homeless they interview!
> 
> Also, I totally lied before when I said four chapters. There will be five. Prepare accordingly.


	4. Teachers Label All the Dreamers Fools

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spring break: in which Grantaire doesn't want to talk about anything, Enjolras's parents want to talk about everything, Enjolras hears from his dream school, someone goes to the hospital, and someone gets in even worse trouble.

“What are you doing, darling?” Enjolras’s mother stood in the doorway of his room, dressed in a suit jacket and pearls, holding a glass of Chardonnay. “You’ve been in here all day. Dinner is in twenty minutes, come on, get dressed.”

“I’m not hungry.” Enjolras laid on the bed and stared at the ceiling. “I have a headache,” he lied.

His mother’s lips pursed together, a small knot of expensive lipstick. “Take some Advil and come downstairs,” she said. “Your father’s been home for dinner every night this week, and we’ve scarcely seen you. I’m not going to have another conversation about why he bothers leaving the office if you won’t leave your room.”

 _It isn’t my fault he doesn’t like spending time with you_ , Enjolras thought but didn’t say. “I’ll spend all day with you tomorrow. I’m really not feeling well, Mother.”

She perched on the edge of his bed and laid one cool hand on his forehead. “You don’t seem sick to me,” she said. “But if you’re really not well, I can call Dr. Louison to come take a look at you.”

Enjolras closed his eyes and counted to five. “Fine,” he said tersely. “I’ll come down to dinner. Just let me get ready.”

“Wonderful.” She beamed. “Oh, I’m so glad. I think it’s good for you to get out of this room every now and again. Matelote’s made ginger salmon. I’ll tell her to hold service for you.” She kissed his forehead and then drifted away, leaving only a soft hint of her perfume in her wake.

Enjolras sat up and ran his fingers through his hair. He grabbed his phone off the nightstand and checked it.

Nothing.

He didn’t know what he was hoping to find. He didn’t even know why he bothered checking.

If the last four days were any indication, he didn’t know much of anything.

He went to his closet and pulled out a pair of navy slacks and a yellow-and-navy tie; everyone was expected to dress up for dinner in this house, even if there wasn’t company coming. His dinner jacket felt, as it always did, like insufficient armor, but its formality provided a shell that he found somewhat comforting.

Maybe his mother was right. Maybe the normalcy of family dinner was what he needed.

 “The prodigal son makes an appearance.” His father laughed jovially when he said it, but his eyes had a hard and dangerous edge in them. “Glad you could join us.”

Enjolras let it pass with just a nod. _Just have to get through it_ , he reminded himself. _Then it’s back to staring at my phone waiting for a text that’s never going to come._

It was a sad statement when that was a more appealing way to spend his evening than a gourmet dinner with his family.

“Let’s take a seat, shall we?” His mother’s eyes darted nervously around the room. “It smells simply _divine_.”

They sat at the too-large dining room table, in mahogany chairs beneath a white lace tablecloth. The plates were already laid at each place.

“What’ve you been doing with your break so far?” His father asked. “Not just lying around, I hope. A young man like you should be productive.”

“It’s _vacation_ ,” Enjolras said.

His mother shot him a warning look over the rim of her wine glass. “He works very hard at school, you know,” she said, her voice falsely cheerful. “He deserves a break.”

“Could work a bit harder, if you ask me,” his father said. “I got the last report from your French professor.”

“I don’t take French anymore,” Enjolras protested.

“Now, let’s not do this,” his mother said, her eyes dark. “I thought we agreed to have a pleasant evening together, as a family.” She smiled brightly.

“Sorry,” Enjolras muttered, turning his eyes to his plate. Matelote’s food was always good, but he wasn’t hungry; he just pushed it around between small bites. He’d taken five so far, and he estimated he’d need to take at least twenty more before he could make a convincing show of being full and flee back to his room with impunity.

“When are you heading back to school?” His mother refilled her wine glass. “Not too soon, I hope.”

“I think I’ll go back this weekend,” Enjolras said. “I have a lot of stuff to get done, and it’s easier to work there.” He forced a smile. “There’s less to distract me.”

His father snorted. “Fine way to talk about your mother’s company.”

Enjolras took a very small piece of salmon in his mouth, chewed it as slowly as he could, and swallowed. _Six._

“What are you working on at school, dear?” his mother prompted. “You never talk about what you’re learning anymore. When you were little, you always had something to show—“

“Marie,” his father warned. “He doesn’t have to act out your fantasy of having a five-year-old again.”

“I don’t mind,” Enjolras said quickly; it was important to defuse any interaction between them before it started to build in intensity. Things were rough enough when they talked to him; if they talked to each other, an already ugly situation could become unbearable very quickly. “There’s a project in Lamarque’s Problems in Social Discourse class. I’m making a film to document the real life problems faced by… the indigent.” He swallowed from his glass of water.

“Indigent,” his father scoffed. “Fancy word for criminal, isn’t it?”

“That’s exactly the kind of misconception we’re trying to—“

“We?” his mother interrupted. “Is Combeferre working on it with you?”

Enjolras bit his tongue to keep from snapping at her. “No,” he said, when he could be trusted to speak. “I’m working with a new student. You don’t know him.”

His mother’s eyebrows didn’t move much, but they looked like they were threatening to make an exception. “You’ve made a new friend?”

“I’m not sure I’d call us friends,” Enjolras said exhaustedly. “We’re working together on the project, that’s all.”

“Well, I’m sure it’ll be wonderful,” his mother said. “My, this salmon is delicious. I do believe Matelote has outdone herself.”

Things were quiet again, save for the scraping of silverware on china. Enjolras gazed morosely at the greens on the end of his fork. _Seven_.

A buzzing in his pocket made him jump and bang his knee painfully on the table. “Ow, shit!”

“Careful,” his father growled, steadying his glass. “And watch your language.”

“Sorry,” Enjolras said breathlessly. His heart was pounding in his chest. What if it was Grantaire?

“Are you all right?” His mother’s eyes looked somewhat concerned. “Maybe we should give Dr. Louison a call after all.”

“He’s clumsy, not sick, Marie.”

“He wasn’t feeling well earlier,” his mother argued.

“It’s nothing,” Enjolras said, looking down at the table.

“You didn’t jump for no reason,” his father said. “Tell your mother what it is so we can get back to dinner.”

“I got a text message,” he said. He’d turned his phone to vibrate because his mother said phones ringing aggravated her migraines, but he hadn’t been able to resist sliding it into his pocket before he came down. “It surprised me, that’s all.”

His mother frowned. “You know we don’t allow phones at the table.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” He forced himself to make eye contact with her. “It won’t happen again.”

“Your generation and your phones,” his father grumbled. “You have no idea what the real world looks like, you’re so busy staring at little screens.”

“I said I’m sorry,” Enjolras said, voice brittle. “It’s away, look. I haven’t even taken it out.” But, oh, how he wanted to.

In his pocket, his phone vibrated against his leg.

“You should watch your tone with me,” his father said. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten what you put this family through two years ago.”

This was the difference between being in trouble at school and being in trouble at home. At school, they assigned detention and then it was over. At home, it was never over.

And Grantaire could be waiting for an answer _right now_.

“May I be excused?” he asked quietly.

“You’ve hardly eaten anything,” his mother said, nodding toward his plate.

“I told you I wasn’t hungry,” he said.

“You’ll stay until we say you can go,” said his father. “Matelote made this meal special, and your mother’s missed you. I don’t know what you do in that room all day, but it can wait another hour.”

Enjolras couldn’t eat another bite. His phone lay against his leg, heavy with possibility. His stomach churned with expectation and he only managed a few anxious sips of water. He jiggled his sore knee under the table for half an hour more before his mother pulled her sidelong glance from him and sighed.

“You may clear your plate,” she said.

“That’s it?” his father asked. “You’re just going to let him leave without finishing his dinner?”

“Well, he clearly isn’t going to,” his mother snapped. “Go on, darling.”

He leapt up and grabbed his plate.

“Don’t forget to push your chair in,” she reminded gently.

Enjolras pushed the heavy wooden chair back under the table and pressed a kiss to his mother’s cheek. “Thank you, Mother.”

He set his plate in the sink, ignoring Matelote’s judgmental glance at the amount of food left on it.

“Did you not like your dinner?” she asked. “I could make you something else.”

“No, thank you, Matelote,” he said. “It was great. I’m just not very hungry.”

She huffed. “The pair of them could take away anyone’s appetite. Do they feed you well enough at school? I worry about you.”

“I know,” he said. “I’ll come down for breakfast tomorrow, okay? But there’s something I have to do right now.” Enjolras gave her a quick hug—she was always so good to him—and darted out of the kitchen.

He made himself wait until he was all the way upstairs and safely in his room with the door locked before he shakily pulled his phone from his pocket. It wouldn’t do to have to explain. He wasn’t even sure he could.

Grantaire hadn’t texted.

The first three messages were from Courfeyrac.

**Did you check your mail today?**

**????**

**You’re killing me here**

The fourth was from Combeferre.

**You should answer Courfeyrac.**  
 **I think he’s having a stroke. He**  
 **doesn’t want to say, but he**  
 **heard from Hamline today.**

Enjolras dropped his phone and threw open the door. He tripped over his own feet as he scrambled down the stairs and only just managed to catch himself on the banister.

“What’s wrong?” his mother asked, faintly alarmed over her fourth glass of wine.

“The mail,” he panted. “Have you seen it?”

“It’s on the hall table,” she said, waving a hand. “Why?”

“Was there anything for me?” he asked, tearing through the pile of envelopes.

His mother shrugged. “Maybe.”

There it was. Maroon H insignia in the upper left corner. He held it in his trembling hands a moment before he ripped into it. The paper tore awkwardly, sending shreds of white paper drifting down to the Turkish rug.

“Really, darling,” his mother said. “You should have let me get you a letter opener if you’re going to make such a mess.”

Enjolras ignored her and unfolded the letter. “I’m in,” he breathed.

“That’s wonderful,” his mother said absently. “I knew you could do it if you set your mind to it. All that business with the failed classes was never a matter of a lack of ability.”

He clutched the letter to his chest and ran back up the stairs. He picked his phone off the floor and sent a text to Courfeyrac and Combeferre.

**I’m in!**

He almost added more exclamation marks, but he deleted them. His friends, he knew, would get the idea.

Courfeyrac answered first.

**YES YES YES EVERYTHING**  
 **ACCORDING TO PLAN I’M**  
 **SO HAPPY!!!!!!**

Combeferre, as always, was more subdued.

**Great news! I know how much**  
 **you wanted it. And if I decide**  
 **to go to UMN, we’ll be close!**

He didn’t feel like telling anyone else; it seemed wrong, somehow, even though they’d all shared their good news (and sometimes bad) in the past.

He felt like he’d be leaving Grantaire out. Even if Grantaire had made it clear he didn’t want to hear from Enjolras, it still felt like he should be part of this.

Enjolras put his phone aside and ignored the aching in his belly.

 

He couldn’t sleep that night.

Maybe it was the excitement, or maybe how little he’d eaten, but he couldn’t get comfortable and his mind was too active for sleep. He sat on his bed, looking around his room in the dark.

His eyes landed on the camera bag in the corner.

 _Well,_ he thought. _I might as well._ He hadn’t gotten the film edited before spring break, and chances were he wouldn’t be working one-on-one with Grantaire anytime soon. He’d just go back to doing it all by himself.

It wasn’t a big deal.

He booted up his computer and hooked the camera up to begin the file transfer. Watching the information copy over onto the computer was oddly soothing. He’d always felt satisfied by work well done. When the data was entirely transferred to the computer, he wiped the camera’s memory and clicked on the film icon to begin editing.

** Fatal Error: File Corrupted. **

He felt sick. “No no _no_ ,” he gasped, clicking it again, only to get the same message.

He was going to have to shoot the film over again. And there was no way Enjolras could do that without Grantaire’s connections. Not in time.

He took a deep breath and typed out a message.

 **Hey. I know you don’t want to**  
  **talk to me right now, but there’s**  
 **been an emergency. We have to**  
 **reshoot the film. Please respond.**

It only took a few seconds for the reply to come through.

**All of it?**

**Yes.**

**Shit.**

**Okay. Tell me when.**

Enjolras heaved out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

**Tomorrow? We can meet at  
my place and figure it out.**

**Okay.**

Enjolras sent Grantaire his address and the time—eleven o’clock—and sat back, waiting for a response that never came.

 

“So this is where you live,” Grantaire said, when Enjolras opened the door.

“I live at school,” Enjolras said, rolling his eyes. “Thanks for doing this. I know—“

Grantaire held up a hand. “Please. Let’s not talk about it, okay? I was drunk, and it didn’t happen.” He glanced thoughtfully around the foyer. “Why didn’t you tell me you were the heir to the throne of America?”

“Funny,” Enjolras deadpanned.

An awkward silence descended. They both shifted on their feet, looking at the rug.

“So,” Grantaire said finally. “What happened to the film? I thought we were ready to edit it.”

“The file transfer didn’t work,” Enjolras said. “Something about a corrupted file. I don’t speak computer.”

“Corrupted file?” Grantaire asked. “How much porn have you downloaded to your computer, exactly?”

Enjolras’s shoulders tensed. “None.”

Grantaire’s face fell. “Right, stupid joke. Sorry. Shall we go?”

“Who’s this?” Enjolras’s mother asked from the doorway behind them.

Grantaire recovered first. “Grantaire,” he said, offering her his hand. “I’m a friend of Enjolras’s.”

“A friend, huh?”

“He’s the one I was telling you about,” Enjolras muttered. “We’re working on the film project together.”

“I see.” She pursed her lips. “Well, it’s always good to meet a friend of Enjolras’s. He doesn’t have very many.”

Enjolras flinched.

Grantaire noticed, but Enjolras’s mother didn’t.

“You have to invite your friend to stay,” she said. “Have you eaten? We’ll feed you. Matelote’s an incredible cook, I—“

“We were just leaving, Mother,” Enjolras interrupted. “We have a lot of work to do.”

“Of course,” she said. “Will you be home for dinner?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I’ll call, okay?”

“It isn’t very considerate of Matelote’s time for—“

“I said I’ll call,” he said. He kissed her on the cheek and walked toward the door. “I’ll see you later, Mother.”

“Nice to meet you,” Grantaire said, waving on his way to the door.

“The pleasure was mine,” Enjolras’s mother said. “Do come again.”

“So that’s your mom,” Grantaire said once the door had shut behind them. “She’s—“

“Can that be another thing we don’t talk about?” Enjolras asked tensely. “My parents?”

“Sure,” Grantaire said. “I was just going to say—but never mind. It’s obviously not a good topic.” He sighed. “How has your break been?”

Enjolras looked pained. “Just about like that,” he said. “Now you know why I spend so much time at school.” He paused. “Well, one good thing. I got into Hamline.”

“Really?” Grantaire grinned. “That’s great! I know you really wanted to go there.” He offered no information on his own college plans. “They’ve got that fancy social justice program, right? You’ll fit in really well there. And you’re—“

“Actually,” Enjolras said, “can we skip small talk altogether? I’m not in a really good mood right now, and we should probably get started.”

Grantaire nodded. “Uh, about that. I tried calling Eponine, but she didn’t pick up. I left a voicemail, but until she calls us back, it looks like we’re on our own.”

“Motherfucker,” Enjolras breathed.

“When it rains, it pours,” Grantaire agreed. “We can try the park. Now that it’s warmer out, there’s a sandwich program that operates out there, and we might find someone who’s willing to talk.”

Enjolras blinked. “You did research.”

Grantaire shrugged. “Sure. It didn’t seem fair to let you do everything.”

Enjolras smiled. “Well. Thanks.”

“It’s no problem,” Grantaire said. “Really. We’ll get it done.”

Enjolras nodded shakily. “My car or yours?”

“Yours,” Grantaire said automatically. “I want to see what, exactly, a Fortunate Son drives.”

 

“Excuse me, ma’am, would you mind— ugh,” Enjolras sighed as yet another person refused to acknowledge him or the camera on his shoulder. “I just want a few words,” he pleaded.

A woman with dreadlocks and glasses looked at him oddly as she passed.

Grantaire rejoined him a moment later. “Any luck?” he asked.

“No,” Enjolras grumbled. “You?”

“Thought I had someone for a minute,” he said. “But she was only willing if we paid her, and Lamarque was pretty clear that we can’t incentivize.”

“And no word from Eponine?”

Grantaire shook his head.

“Damn,” Enjolras said, rubbing a hand over his eyes. He was feeling every minute of the sleep he didn’t get last night. “Okay, let’s try that guy over there.”

The man had a shopping cart full of collected cans and bottles, and Enjolras approached him cautiously.

“Excuse me, sir,” he said. “I’m Enjolras and this is Grantaire. We’re students at McAuliffe Academy, and we’re collecting true stories of what it’s like to live in the streets. Would you be interested in doing an interview for us?”

“Nah,” the man said, not looking up.

“Please,” Enjolras said, stepping in front of the cart. “It’ll only be a few minutes, and you don’t have to say anything you don’t want to. It’ll really help us out, and—“

“No!” The man pushed forward with his cart, jostling Enjolras and sending him falling into the street. The man with the shopping cart ran off, turning a corner and disappearing.

“Shit!” Grantaire exclaimed. “You okay?” He held a hand out to help Enjolras out of the street.

Enjolras, clothes ripped and muddy, sat up but didn’t take the offered hand. “I don’t—I don’t think so,” he said, clutching his left arm across his chest.

“Okay,” Grantaire said, running his fingers through his hair. “Okay. Can you move at all, because I don’t think getting hit by a car will help anyth—“

“No,” Enjolras said, voice faint. “No, not—look.”

“Fuck,” Grantaire breathed, following his eyes. The camera laid in the street next to Enjolras. In pieces.

Their project, and their futures, were in pieces along with it.

Grantaire bent over to pick up the pieces. “Come on,” he said. “We shouldn’t—nothing’s going to get any better if we just sit here.” He swallowed. “Can you walk?”

Enjolras nodded, and this time he took Grantaire’s outstretched hand with his right and stood up off the street. His left arm stayed pressed to his body. “It’s my fault,” he said. “I shouldn’t have pushed him.”

“You shouldn’t have,” Grantaire agreed. “But he shouldn’t have knocked you over. Is your arm hurt?”

“Maybe,” Enjolras said, turning to Grantaire with tears in his eyes. “What are we going to do?”

“We’re going to go to the hospital and get you X-rayed,” Grantaire said. “And then we’ll figure out what to do about the project, okay? Together.”

Enjolras nodded. “My, um, my keys are in my left pants pocket. Please get them out—can you drive stick?”

“I can,” Grantaire said, steering him toward the car.

Grantaire held the passenger door open for Enjolras to lower himself into the seat. “Please drive carefully,” Enjolras begged. “My dad will go nuclear if I wreck the car on top of everything.”

“Safe driver discount all the way,” Grantaire said, shutting the door behind him.

They rode in silence, Grantaire’s knuckles white on the steering wheel and Enjolras blinking back tears as he looked at the pieces of the broken camera in his lap. He let out a soft _ooh_ of pain every time they hit a pothole and his arm got jostled.

Grantaire walked him into the emergency room and sat next to him while he filled out his paperwork. “Do you want me to call your parents, or—“

“Fuck, no,” Enjolras said.

Grantaire’s mouth made a line that was almost a smile. “They’ll get worried when you don’t call before dinner.”

“They don’t get worried. They get pissed.” Enjolras sighed. “But I can’t think about that right now.”

“How’s the arm?”

“It hurts,” Enjolras said. It was visibly swollen and twisted oddly. “Kind of numb under the elbow.”

“Shit,” Grantaire said, closing his eyes. “I am going to be in so much trouble for letting you get hurt.”

Enjolras frowned. “You didn’t _let_ me get hurt,” Enjolras said. “It was all my fault, remember? I was holding the camera, I stepped in front of that guy’s shopping cart. I’m the one who’s going to be in trouble.”

“It was an accident,” Grantaire said. “I’ll make sure everyone knows.”

“It won’t make a difference,” Enjolras said glumly. “Professor Avery’s camera is broken, and he’ll be out for blood. I’ll fail Lamarque’s project, and I won’t get to go to Hamline after all.”

“You’re getting ahead of yourself,” Grantaire said, settling his hand on top of the hand of Enjolras’s uninjured arm. “No one’s taking the acceptance from you. Just take it one step at a time.”

Enjolras nodded and said nothing.

Grantaire threaded their fingers together.

When a nurse called Enjolras’s name, he stood.

“Want me to come with you?” Grantaire asked.

“No,” Enjolras said. “You can go, if you want. I don’t know how long this will take, and you haven’t eaten dinner. You can take my car to get yours, and I’ll call Combeferre or somebody when I need to go home—“

“I’ll stay,” Grantaire said, offering him a smile.

Enjolras flashed him a weaker smile in return. “Okay. I’ll see you in a bit.”

 

As it turned out, Enjolras’s parents saw him first.

“You,” Enjolras’s mother said, clacking over to Grantaire in absurdly high heels for a hospital waiting room. “What did you do to my son?”

“It was an accident,” Grantaire said. “He was standing in front of—“

Enjolras’s mother slapped him across the face.

He looked up at her, cheek reddening, stunned into silence.

“You should have called us straight away,” she hissed, “instead of letting some hospital flunky call to ask my permission to treat my minor child—“

“Marie,” said a sharp voice from behind her. “We’re in public.” A tall man with angry eyes sauntered up behind her, leading Enjolras.

“Are you okay?” Grantaire asked.

“Fine,” Enjolras said in a small voice, but he didn’t look it. He seemed drugged, and his arm was in a sling.

“No thanks to you,” said Enjolras’s father. “We’re going to take our son home now. And his car. I don’t care how you get home from here, and I will not be helping you.”

“His car’s at our house,” Enjolras mumbled, as Grantaire handed over Enjolras’s keys.

“That sounds very much like not my problem,” Enjolras’s mother replied, turning to face her son. “Come on, darling, let’s get you home and in bed.” She threw a cruel look over her shoulder as she took Enjolras under her arm and escorted him out the door.

Grantaire sighed and pulled his phone from his pocket.

**Hey, do you feel like doing me a favor?**

Courfeyrac answered in minutes. **Will it be less boring than looking at pictures of wedding dresses with my oldest sister? Because I’m in.**

Grantaire bit his lip. **I need you to get me at the hospital. Long story. Related: why didn’t anyone tell me Enjolras is only seventeen?**

**Jesus, R, you okay?? He skipped kindergarten or something. It’s cray.**

**I’m fine _,_** he replied. **Enjolras got hurt. His parents took him home. Wouldn’t give me a ride. Hurry?**

**Kk. Twenty minutes.**

“What exactly happened?” Headmaster Bamatabois asked.

Grantaire and Enjolras sat in the chairs in front of his desk, Enjolras’s parents and Professors Lamarque and Avery along the wall behind them.

Enjolras cleared his throat. “It was an accident,” he said. “We were—“

“It was my fault,” Grantaire interrupted.

“I knew it,” Enjolras’s mother murmured.

Enjolras shook his head. “No, that isn’t—“

“Let him finish, please,” Bamatabois said. “Continue, Grantaire.”

Grantaire swallowed. “We were running really behind. This guy wouldn’t talk to us, and I started to argue with him. He—he pushed me, and I fell into Enjolras, and he fell into the street. It was my fault,” he repeated. “I shouldn’t have gotten aggressive with that man. If I hadn’t, Enjolras wouldn’t have gotten hurt, and the camera wouldn’t be broken.”

Enjolras stared.

“Who was holding the camera?” Professor Avery asked.

“I was,” Grantaire said immediately.

“You were?” Bamatabois flipped through the papers on his desk. “Hm. It says here that you should never have been in possession of a camera. Professor Lamarque agreed when he borrowed it that no one on academic probation would have access to it. That’s one of the rules.”

“I lied to him,” Grantaire said.

“I see,” Bamatabois sighed. “Well, boys, if you’ll wait in the annex for a few minutes, I think the other adults and I have some things to discuss while we decide on the consequences.”

Grantaire and Enjolras slumped into the annex. Grantaire sprawled in a chair, and Enjolras gingerly settled in next to him.

They could hear Enjolras’s father’s voice through the door, speaking loudly about “outrage” and “that boy’s a menace” and “why would that man even allow these kids out unsupervised?” and “my lawyer.”

“How’s your arm?” Grantaire asked quietly.

“Broken wrist, dislocated elbow,” Enjolras said. “They don’t think it needs surgery. It’ll be fine.”

“Good,” Grantaire said.

The clock on the wall ticked loudly. Professor Avery’s voice was less shrill than Enjolras’s mother’s, but it was solid and firm, and they caught a snippet of “several hundred dollars of equipment destroyed” and “wanton carelessness.”

“So I heard you skipped kindergarten?” Grantaire grinned at him. “Leave it to you to skip one of the fun years, where you still get a snack and a nap time.”

“Why would you do that?” Enjolras asked. “Why would you lie?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Grantaire looked up at him through bloodshot eyes under a mess of curls.

“No,” Enjolras said. “It isn’t.”

Grantaire cocked his head to the side. “Perhaps not,” he said. “How curious.” He picked a piece of lint off his shirt. “Well, it seemed to me you had a lot more to lose than I did. And you’re already hurt.”

“It’s my fault that I’m hurt,” Enjolras insisted. “You know that.”

“Yes, well, there’s knowing and there’s _knowing_ ,” Grantaire said mysteriously.

They sat in silence a while after that, before Bamatabois called Grantaire back into the office.

Things were very quiet while Grantaire was in the office, and he returned a few minutes later with his head high.

 “Good luck,” Grantaire whispered, squeezing his good hand. “It’s been great to know you, whatever happens.”

“What do you mean?” Enjolras began, a cold creeping sensation starting on the back of his neck. “It was great to know me, what does that—“

“Enjolras,” Headmaster Bamatabois called. “We’re ready for you now.”

Grantaire smiled encouragingly and left the annex. Enjolras watched him disappear before he turned toward the Headmaster’s office.

 “Have a seat,” Bamatabois said.

Enjolras sat.

“We’ve discussed it, and we’ve agreed that you’ve been punished enough for your foolish actions.” He eyed the sling Enjolras’s arm was in, rather more warily than necessary. “You can live at home until you’re feeling a bit better, and of course you’ll resume your weekly visits with the counselor.”

Enjolras swallowed. “And Grantaire?”

Enjolras’s parents shared a look.

“I think, given recent events, we can agree that it wasn’t a good fit for him here,” Bamatabois said.

“No,” Enjolras said, voice hollow. “No, you can’t do that.”

“Be reasonable, darling,” his mother said. “The Headmaster has the best interests of the school at heart.”

“Then expel me,” Enjolras shouted. “He’s innocent. I’m the one who—“

“Enjolras,” his father said. “It’s already done.”

Enjolras turned to Lamarque. “Professor, you can’t let them—you know he’s not like that, it was all an accident. He deserves to be here as much as anyone. More than I do.”

Lamarque shook his head very sadly. “Enjolras, I—“

“I’m afraid Professor Lamarque’s power to intercede with the goings-on at this school has come to an end,” Bamabatois said curtly. “Given that he should never have allowed Grantaire near the camera in the first place, it’s been decided it would be best if he took a leave of absence.”

“You _can’t_ ,” Enjolras cried. “You’re the best—you’re the only—“

“Enjolras,” his father snapped.

“You can’t do this!” Enjolras yelled. “You’re all cowards! Why won’t any of you do what’s right?”

“Forgive him,” Enjolras’s mother said, laying a hand on the shoulder of her son’s uninjured arm. “The pain medication makes him emotional.”

He shook her off. “I’m not emotional!” He was shaking, his eyes were clouded with tears, but his mind was clear. He knew right from wrong.

His father raised his eyebrows. “Control yourself.”

“This is wrong,” he muttered, shaking his head. “I’ll make sure everyone knows it.”

Bamatabois ignored him. “I look forward to seeing you back in school when the session resumes next week,” he said, “if you’re up to it.”

He shook Enjolras’s parents’ hands and ushered them toward the door; the meeting was over.

 

Enjolras stood outside the building, waiting for his parents to pull the car around. The sun shone obnoxiously, which only added to the sense of injustice he felt. The least the weather could do was be raining on the worst day of his life. He would have settled for a strong wind.

“I hope you understand what I tried to do,” Professor Lamarque said from behind him.

“No,” Enjolras said. “I understand that you’re leaving.”

Lamarque sighed. “I was trying to protect you. Both of you. Taking responsibility for the camera—it was supposed to prevent any serious consequences from falling on you. But I underestimated how important your parents’ money is to the school. They threatened to sue if Grantaire wasn’t expelled.”

“Just because they’re shit doesn’t mean you all have to be shit too,” Enjolras said, blinking back tears. “You’re the best teacher I’ve ever had. The only one who ever made me _want_ to learn, and—and you’re just going to go. You’re going to let them _win._ You aren’t going to be here anymore, and it’s all my fault.”

“Please, Enjolras,” Lamarque said. “Don’t see it that way. This isn’t because of you. They’ve wanted me gone for years. This was merely a convenient excuse.”

“I’m going to get your job back,” Enjolras said. “I don’t know how yet, but I’m going to.”

“Leave it,” Lamarque said. “I’m an old man. I was going to retire soon anyway. It was _time_ , Enjolras.”

“It isn’t fair.” Enjolras knew he sounded like a child, but he couldn’t help it.

His father’s car pulled up to the front of the building.

Lamarque shook his head. “Take care of yourself, kid. You’re one of the good ones. The world’s going to try to wear you down, but you’re going to keep fighting it. Even when you shouldn’t.”

Enjolras’s father honked the horn.

“You should go,” Lamarque said. “Watch out for that arm, okay? And send me a post card when you get to college. I’d like to know how you turn out.” He smiled at Enjolras and walked off.

Enjolras slid into the backseat of his father’s car and let his parents’ chatter about the meeting slip past him all the way home, as silent tears rolled down his cheeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter to go! Thank you for joining me on this ride, and I'm really sorry about how painful this chapter is.


	5. Finish What We Started

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of the disastrous spring break, Grantaire disappears and Enjolras doesn't handle it well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the longest chapter; brace yourselves.

Enjolras’s phone chimed for the third time.

“Who’s texting you?” Courfeyrac asked, kicking his feet in the air. “We’re all _here_.”

Enjolras sighed, sliding his phone back into his pocket. “It’s my mother,” he said. “Wondering where I am. I’ll have to answer her soon or she’ll start breathing fire to level the horizon and make me easier to find.”

“When are they going to let you move back?” Courfeyrac asked. “I’m tired of having visiting hours restricted. It’s like you’re in prison.”

“Maybe never,” Enjolras said glumly. “They’re keeping a pretty tight hold on my schedule. They won’t say, but I think they’re punishing me.”

Combeferre laid a hand on his good shoulder. “They’re worried about you,” he said. “They’re upset. They’ll come around.”

“They’re worried about _them_ ,” Enjolras said.

“Your parents love you,” Combeferre said, with the conviction of someone who had never had to doubt that his parents loved him. “In their own, flawed, way, they want what’s best for you.”

“I don’t know if sharks can feel love,” Enjolras muttered. “They aren’t letting me do anything. It’s straight to classes and straight home—she waits at the gate for me. I’m only allowed a half hour after classes let out today because I told them I had my meeting with Valjean this afternoon.”

“When is that, really?” Courfeyrac asked.

“Tomorrow morning,” Enjolras said. “They’re letting me out of second period.”

Combeferre frowned. “You have to go back to Lamarque’s class sometime.”

“That’s the problem, isn’t it?” Enjolras stretched his legs long. “It isn’t his class anymore.”

In the gloomy silence that fell after that pronouncement, Enjolras’s phone alerted him to a fourth text from his mother. Even the phone was starting to sound annoyed.

“Damn,” he said. “I really have to go.” He levered himself off Courfeyrac’s bed.

“You can Skype us if it gets unbearable,” Courfeyrac offered.

“And we’ll see you tomorrow,” Combeferre said. “It’s just temporary, you know?”

“Yeah,” Enjolras said, adjusting his sling like it was battle armor. “See you in the morning.”

“I feel like I’m sending him off to be executed,” Courfeyrac said as the door shut behind him. He flipped over onto his back. “He’s so hopeless.”

“You know how his parents are,” Combeferre said bitterly. “I bet they like him that way. Easier to control.”

Courfeyrac wrinkled his nose. “Ugh.”

“Ugh indeed,” Combeferre said, flopping onto his back next to Courfeyrac. “Ugh indeed.”

 

The guidance office could not have been quieter if there had been no one in it.

Valjean cleared his throat. “We don’t have to talk about anything you don’t want to,” he said, in the tone of someone who had said this thing many times before. “We can talk about the baseball team if that’s what you want. But this hour will pass a lot more pleasantly if we exchange words.”

Enjolras looked out the window. “Do you have something against silence, Dr. Valjean?”

Valjean smiled at him. “Touché.” He leaned back in his chair. “I wanted to continue our sessions last year, but once the term was completed you were no longer under any obligation. Of course, no one can force you.” He spread his hands flat on the desk. “I’m on your side, Enjolras. I’m not going to tell your parents or the Headmaster or anyone else what you say to me. It’s private.”

“I know.” Enjolras bowed his head. “I remember.”

“So do you want to talk about what’s bothering you?”

Enjolras nibbled his thumbnail. It was a habit he’d had as a child, but he’d abandoned it in recent years. This week it had made a resurgence, and the skin of his thumb was red and swollen.

“Who says anything’s bothering me?” He said at last.

“I’m not going to fight with you,” Valjean said. “If you say nothing’s bothering you, I’ll take you at your word.”

Enjolras thought for a long moment. The clock on the wall ticked loudly.

“Lamarque,” he said finally.

Valjean nodded. “I know you were close to Professor Lamarque.”

“It’s not that,” Enjolras sighed. “It’s the injustice of it all. He tried to help us out and he was crucified for it. We ended up with nothing, all the same.”

“By ‘we,’ you mean you and Grantaire?”

Enjolras made no answer.

“You blame yourself.”

Enjolras looked out the window again. He realized his thumb had found its way between his teeth again, and he forced it back down to his lap. “Yes.”

“It isn’t your fault what happened to him,” Valjean said. “Either of them. They made their choices, and they knew the consequences. You can only take responsibility for your life. No one else’s.”

“I know, but—” Enjolras huffed frustratedly. “It _is_ my fault.”

“Why would you say that?”

Enjolras looked down. His fingers stuck out of the cast, awkward and ugly. Valjean was a good guy, basically. But he still worked for the school. “It was my idea,” he said. “The whole project. He didn’t even want to do it. I’m the one who messed up the data transfer. We wouldn’t have  been out there if it hadn’t been for me. And my parents pushed to get him expelled.”

Valjean jotted something in his notes. “Does Grantaire blame you?”

“No.” Enjolras snorted. “He doesn’t.”

“Do you think it would help you to talk to him about this?” Valjean folded his hands.

Enjolras shrugged. “My parents don’t want me talking to him.”

“We’re not here for your parents,” Valjean reminded. “We’re here for you. Would it help you to write him a letter explaining how you feel?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Enjolras said. “I don’t know where to find him.”

“Sometimes,” Valjean said, “it helps just to write it down. You don’t have to send it.”

Enjolras grimaced. “That seems like a waste of time,” he admitted. “What’s productive about telling myself things I know already?”

“Does something have to be obviously productive to be worth doing?” Valjean asked.

“Of course it does,” Enjolras said.

“But can’t something that initially seems pointless sometimes prove helpful?” Valjean asked. “Can’t things you don’t understand offer you clarity or comfort?”

Enjolras chewed his thumbnail. “Maybe,” he offered.

“A lot of people find this a valuable exercise,” Valjean said. “Think on it, please. That’s all I ask.”

Enjolras nodded. “Okay. I’ll think about it.”

“Thank you,” Valjean said. “About next week—an afternoon appointment would work better for me. Do you have any objection?”

He did, but it felt silly to say that he didn’t want to see another teacher in Lamarque’s classroom. “That’s fine,” he said instead. “Four o’clock?”

Valjean paged through his datebook. “Wednesday is clear at four. Thanks for understanding.” He smiled warmly. “I’ll see you then.”

Enjolras stood. “Thanks.” He left the guidance office feeling no more guided than before.

 

“Is your arm okay?”

“It’s fine,” Enjolras said shortly; Joly was the ninth person to ask that day.

“Only you keep moving around like it hurts you, and—”

“Of course it hurts, Joly, that’s why it’s in a cast and sling,” Enjolras said. “But it’s as fine as it’s going to get, so I wish people would stop bugging me about it.” He started stacking his books in preparation for scooping them up with his good arm.

“I can carry those for you,” Joly offered. “If you want.”

“I’m not a porcelain doll,” Enjolras snapped. “I can carry my own things.”

Joly blinked. “Of course you can. But I have two hands, see? And my backpack is basically empty because carrying too much weight is bad for my scoliosis—”

“You don’t have scoliosis, Joly.”

“—so there’s plenty of room for your stuff. We’re going to the same place.” Joly offered him a smile; he took it with a sigh.

“Okay,” he said. “Thank you.”

Joly flanked his injured side in the hallway. “Have you heard from Grantaire?”

“No,” Enjolras said. “Why?”

“Just thought you might have,” Joly said. “You guys seemed pretty close.”

“We weren’t,” Enjolras stuck his right hand in his pocket to keep from chewing on his thumb again.

“We all liked him,” Joly said. “I didn’t know him very well, but everyone thought he was nice.”

“He wasn’t,” Enjolras said, shaking his head. “He was talented, and funny, and smart as hell, but he wasn’t nice.”

Joly set Enjolras’s books on his desk when they got to the physics room, and Enjolras took a moment to send a furtive text.

**Everyone’s asking**   
**about you. They seem**   
**to think I know how to**   
**get in  touch. Do I?**

He never received a response.

 

 

“I have a lot of homework,” Enjolras told his mother as they pulled into the garage. “Is it okay if Matelote sends a tray to my room?”

She frowned. “Should you be working so hard? I’m sure the doctor could give you a note to take to school.”

“It’s fine, Mother,” he said. “I just need time to work, that’s all.”

“Then of course you can eat in your room,” his mother answered, though her tone remained cold. “As long as you don’t forget your pills.”

Ah, the pills. His parents had called in every favor they were owed until he had a top-of-the-line painkiller that left him dizzy and fatigued, and—the other pills.

He wanted to hate them as much as he hated everything that came from his parents—without merit, without cause—but in the last two weeks, he’d come to appreciate the Ativan. It didn’t iron out the wrinkles in his life, but it helped shut down his mind when the time came for sleep.

Sleep didn’t come very easily on its own these days.

Enjolras set his school books down with a thud and got out the pad and pen he used to take reading notes.

He didn’t get out his assigned text. Instead, he wrote two letters.

 

“You going to stop to eat?” Matelote asked, grinning in the doorway.

Enjolras put his pen down and flexed his hand. “I’m finished, actually.”

“Please tell me you’re going to eat dinner tonight. I made your favorite.” She set the tray on his desk, sweeping aside his work. “White lasagna and honey-roasted carrots. I brought you two slices of rhubarb pie. Everything’s cut up already, so all you have to do is eat it.”

He smiled at her. “You’re too good to me,” he said. “I’m sorry I haven’t been—just not very hungry, lately. It’s the medicine, I think. But I’ll try.”

Matelote bent to kiss the top of his head; she smelled like butter and salt. “I know you will. You always try. Such a good boy.”

“I don’t feel like a good boy,” he said. “I always let people down.”

“Everybody lets people down,” Matelote said, stroking his hair. “You always fix it, though, and that makes you special.” Her eyes glittered. “You’re fixing it now, aren’t you?”

He laughed. “You’re wiser than you let on, Matelote.”

“Course I am,” she said, puffing up to her full height of five foot one. “And you’d do well to remember it.”

He managed to eat half of what she brought him before he could no longer delay booting up his computer.

 

 **ProPatriaMori:** _I need your help with something._

 **ajoyforever:** _oh?_

 **ProPatriaMori:** _It’s about the newspaper._

 **ajoyforever:** _i can’t stop running fricassee’s column_

 **ajoyforever:** _it’s against everything i stand for as a journalist but_

 **ajoyforever:** _the readers love it_

 **ajoyforever:** _and i’m anti-censorship_

 **ProPatriaMori:** _This isn’t about Fricassee’s stupid gossip column. It’s about getting Lamarque his job back._

 **ajoyforever:** _i’m listening_

 **ProPatriaMori:** _I’m emailing you an op-ed for next week’s issue. I need you to print it._

 **ajoyforever:** _i’ve got a full layout for next week_

 **ProPatriaMori:** _Bump someone. It’s important._

 **ajoyforever:** _i’ll see what i can do_

 **ProPatriaMori:** _It has to be anonymous. You can’t say it came from me._

 **ajoyforever:** _enjolras, are you ok?_

 **ProPatriaMori:** _I’ll have to get back to you on that._

**2sexy4myshirt:** _Jehan said ur being weird. Did u take too many of ur parents fun pills?_

 **ProPatriaMori:** _I don’t have time for this, Courfeyrac._

 **2sexy4myshirt:** _Ur home alone w/ ur parents. Uve got nothing but time._

 **ProPatriaMori:** _It’s really hard to type with one hand._

 **2sexy4myshirt:** _Ur really serious about this, aren’t u?_

 **2sexy4myshirt:** _I mean, ur always serious, I know that, but ur really REALLY serious about this._

 **2sexy4myshirt:** _How can I help?_

 **ProPatriaMori:** _I don’t think you can. Unless you know Grantaire’s parents’ address?_

 **2sexy4myshirt:** _I dont, sry._

 **ProPatriaMori:** _It was a longshot anyway._

 **2sexy4myshirt:** _He didnt go back there anyway, if that’s what u were thinking._

 **ProPatriaMori:** _Wait, do you know where he is?_

 **ProPatriaMori:** _Courfeyrac?_

 **ProPatriaMori:** _He told you not to tell me, didn’t he?_

 **ProPatriaMori:** _It’s important._

 **ProPatriaMori:** _I’m your best friend!_

 **2sexy4myshirt:** _Im going 2 get n so much trouble for telling u this._

**ajoyforever:** _i’m sacrificing my poetry spot for this_

 **ajoyforever:** _you’d better be grateful_

 **ajoyforever:** _enjolras?_

 **ProPatriaMori:** _You’re a true friend, Jehan._

 **ajoyforever:** _don’t i know it_

**ProPatriaMori:** _Courfeyrac? I need one more favor._

 **2sexy4myshirt:** _oh boy_

 **2sexy4myshirt:** _Name it._

 **ProPatriaMori:** _I need you to take me somewhere._

Enjolras used to sneak out by climbing down the wrought iron trellis under his bedroom window, but with only one functional arm he had to get creative.

“Mother,” he said, as casually as he could manage.

She startled. “Do you need something, darling? Is your arm hurting again?”

He smiled and shook his head. “No,” he said. “I’m feeling a lot better, actually.”

A frown creased her forehead. “We’ve discussed this. Your father and I don’t feel comfortable letting you live back at school just yet—”

“No,” Enjolras said. “It isn’t about that. I… agree.” The words tasted acid on his tongue, but it was all for a greater purpose.

She looked as surprised as if he’d said he was contemplating a career as a circus clown. “You do?”

“Yes. It’s only…” He shifted uncomfortably. “I forgot I promised to help Courfeyrac with his lines for the play, and now he’s calling and I can’t figure out how to get out of it.”

Her disagreement was reflexive. “You shouldn’t be trying to get out of helping your friends.”

“I know,” Enjolras said, trying to look ashamed. “But he wants me to go to his room for a couple of hours, and I don’t know if I should.”

“Nonsense,” his mother said, unruffled. “You made a promise. Call Courfeyrac and tell him I’ll bring you by in a few minutes.”

“I think he’s on his way to get me himself,” Enjolras said, trying not to look too cheerful about it.

“Okay, then,” his mother said. “Go help Courfeyrac with his lines, and try not to be so careless with your promises next time.”

Enjolras flopped into Courfeyrac’s car a few minutes later and broke out into a grin. “You know your lines for the play, right?”

“I don’t have any lines,” Courfeyrac said. “I’m a statue. I just stand there in a toga looking fabulous.”

“Perfect,” Enjolras said. “Because I’m supposed to be helping you memorize them, and I’d hate to let down a friend.”

 

The building looked dangerous in every way imaginable. It was easy to imagine shootings, stabbings, and other acts of violence taking place there; it was equally easy to imagine the entire thing collapsing in on itself. It was the kind of place that screamed for a condemnation notice and a wrecking ball; if Enjolras had known about it earlier in the semester, he might have wanted to film _here._

“Are you sure about this?” Courfeyrac asked him. “I’m sure he didn’t want you to know for a reason.”

Enjolras looked grimly up at the building. “I’ve _got_ to,” he said.

“Want me to come with you?” Courfeyrac’s eyes darted between the frightening building and Enjolras’s cast before settling on his face.

Enjolras shook his head. “I have to do this myself,” he said. “You just— keep the doors locked, okay?”

Courfeyrac looked startled. “Um. Duh. Have you seen this place?” He tugged on his hair. “Be careful, okay?”

“When am I not careful?”

“Always.” Courfeyrac looked at him. “Good luck. And if you need anything—”

“You’re here. I know.” Enjolras smiled.

“I was going to say you’re on your own, because I’m not going in there by myself.” Courfeyrac saluted.

Enjolras rolled his eyes. “I’ll be back soon.” He pulled himself out of the car and pushed the door shut.

An old man sitting on the stoop blew his cigarette smoke in Enjolras’s face as he entered the building.

The inside of the building wasn’t much better than the outside. The staircase was rickety and smelled of urine and rats. A crying woman brushed past Enjolras on her way down the stairs. The lights flickered ominously overhead, as if any minute they might go out permanently.

He stood outside 5A, listening to a television blaring on the other side of the door and a child screaming inside one of the other apartments. He’d skipped his medication—he wanted to be sharp for this—but the way his heart was pounding and his arm ached, he wondered if it might have been better to take the edge off.

Enjolras took a deep breath and knocked on the door.

The television noise stopped, leaving a heavy pause on the other side of the door. Then the heavy clunk of feet in combat boots, and the door swung open.

“What do you want?” asked a dark-skinned guy—a couple of years older than Enjolras—with gold eyeliner and gel in his hair.

“I—” Enjolras swallowed. “I might have the wrong apartment. Sorry, I was looking for—”

“You don’t have the wrong apartment,” Grantaire said, coming up behind the other boy. “It’s okay, I got this.”

The stranger raised his eyebrows. “Take care of it,” he said. “I don’t like being disturbed.” He stalked off, then, into some dark recess of the apartment. Enjolras heard a door slam.

“Who’s that?” he asked.

Grantaire ran a hand through his curls. “Eponine’s boyfriend Montparnasse. He’s letting me crash here until I figure something out.” The television was still on in the background, only muted; the flickering light reflected off Grantaire’s face. “Why are you here?”

“You have to come back.” Enjolras’s eyes landed on the bottle dangling from Grantaire’s fingers.

Grantaire, perhaps sensing his disappointment, jerked it out of sight. “I don’t have to do anything,” he sneered. “In case you’ve forgotten, I was chucked. I’ll be arrested if I set foot on school grounds.”

“What are you doing here?” Enjolras breathed, and it meant something entirely different from when Grantaire had asked him.

“Same as you,” Grantaire said. “Surviving.” He licked his lips. “I can’t go back where I came from. My dad made it pretty clear what I could expect if I fucked up at another school. It was this or my car, and in case you didn’t find this out in your research, it’s illegal to live in a car.”

“You can’t stay here,” Enjolras insisted. “This place is—it’s _horrible_.” He peered into the apartment; he thought he saw a used syringe on the floor behind Grantaire, but Grantaire had put his body between Enjolras and the inside.

“Thanks for your concern,” Grantaire said. He didn’t sound thankful. “But it’s what I deserve.”

Enjolras took a slow breath. “Can I come inside and talk about this?”

Grantaire laughed, harsh and hollow. “You think this place is too good for _me_ , but I’m going to let _you_ inside? No. The sooner you get out of here and back to your palace, the better.”

Enjolras bit his lip to cover the deeper sting of those words. “I’ve got a plan,” he said. “To get Lamarque reinstated and your name cleared. But I need you to help me.”

“I’ve done enough helping you,” Grantaire said, and his eyes were more sad than angry as he reached out one dirty hand to caress Enjolras’s hair. “There’s nothing more I can do. I’ve already given you everything I have. Go home now. Forget about me. Become the great man you’re supposed to or—or all of this is a waste.”

“It’s a waste anyway,” Enjolras said. “You’re wasted on me, and I don’t want that.”

“What you want doesn’t have anything to do with it,” Grantaire said. “I chose this. Me. It’s not up to you how I live.” He turned toward the interior of the apartment at some indeterminate sound. Enjolras saw that he was trembling.

“I want to fix this,” Enjolras pleaded.

Grantaire faced him again. “You can’t. Goodbye, Enjolras,” he said, and shut the door.

Enjolras stood there for a few shaky breaths, debating whether he should pound on the door and scream for Grantaire to come back. Part of him suspected it would be satisfying, but another part knew it would do no good.

He pulled an envelope from his sling, where he’d stuck it for safekeeping, and slipped it under the door before walking away.

 

“According to Professor Lamarque’s syllabus, this day is for work on your projects,” Professor Blondel smiled weakly at the class. The art teacher was a pretty blond woman with perfect teeth, and she seemed nice enough for all that she could not take Lamarque’s place.

Enjolras sighed and got out his computer to start writing his paper.

“What will you do for your presentation?” Courfeyrac whispered, while Feuilly drew up a visual representation of their data.

Enjolras frowned. “Do I still have to do one? Lamarque isn’t here to grade them.”

“Blondel is sticking to the syllabus,” Courfeyrac said. “Everyone pulled lots for presentation order last week. You’re going last, because you’re a lucky bastard.”

Enjolras pursed his lips. “Not that lucky,” he said. “I guess I’ll give a speech about what I learned. It won’t be anything near as good as I’d planned.”

Courfeyrac winced sympathetically. “It’ll be fine,” he said loyally, even though they all remembered last semester’s Comp Lit fiasco.

“It has to be,” Enjolras said, and turned back to his keyboard to pick out his next sentence.

 

“Did you think about what we discussed?” Valjean asked, as soon as he had settled in the chair.

“I wrote it,” Enjolras said.

Valjean raised his eyebrows. “Did it help you?”

“I don’t know yet,” Enjolras said.

Valjean nodded as though this were not completely mysterious. “You know I have to ask about the newspaper.”

It had come out that morning, and the anonymous piece, slipped quietly between an article on school dress codes and one about an ongoing campus beautification project, had begun to create a stir. Students who hadn’t known the story behind Lamarque’s departure had been whispering it to each other all day, and Enjolras had heard rumors that a few of them were planning to organize a meeting after school tomorrow to get a petition signed to bring him back.

It was widely suspected that Enjolras was the author, but no one could prove anything. The author had been vague enough with the details that it could have been anyone. Even after two hours with Bamatabois, Jehan refused to roll over on his source.

Society could say anything it wanted about a skinny boy with long hair wearing a skirt, but he could be fierce when he felt he was doing the right thing.

“Okay. Ask.”

“Did you write it?” Valjean asked. “I remind you that this is confidential. You won’t be in any trouble.”

Enjolras shrugged his good shoulder. “I don’t know who wrote it,” he said blandly. “But I think its author was really brave to strike such a blow against an unjust institution.”

“I hope he knows what he’s doing.”

“Or she.”

Valjean rubbed his eyes. “Enjolras. I’m glad to see you more like yourself, but this—I am not sure this was wise.”

“Wise men don’t need advice,” Enjolras said, “and fools won’t take it.”

They passed the rest of the session in silence. Periodically Dr. Valjean would open his mouth to say something, but he always stopped himself at the look in Enjolras’s eyes.

 

The petition was signed by every member of the Problems on Social Discourse class, and a good number of students from the Upper School showed up to pledge their support and pin I STAND WITH THE GENERAL buttons to their uniforms. A smattering of younger students came, maybe just to find out what the fuss was about; Lamarque had rarely taught anyone under grade ten. Professor Javert broke up the rally when the shouting started— _un_ civil disobedience was not to be tolerated, he said, as though there was really any other kind—but by then the contagion had spread.

The buttons became something of a fashion statement, and even popular kids who had never before seemed justice-minded wanted one. Every time Enjolras walked past one of the students who had never spoken to him and caught sight of a vivid red button, the weight in his heart lightened somewhat.

Feuilly was kept even busier than usual making them, staying up late into the night after he finished his work study in the offices. Every few days he printed up a new slogan, and kids fell over each other to update their collections. How the buttons disseminated in the student body, no one seemed to know. Feuilly smiled mysteriously whenever he was asked.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he would say. “Those kids don’t even like me. Besides, why would I be making trouble this close to graduation? This school has given me everything.” But his eyes glinted hard, like steel, and Enjolras was overcome with gladness to know him.

No comment was issued by the administration regarding Lamarque’s dismissal, but the buttons were deemed a dress code violation and display of them became subtle and subversive. They disappeared from blazer lapels and ties, but every so often the eye could catch a flash of red on the bottom of a shoe or underneath long hair; they were pinned, now, to the insides of book bags or clipped to key chains.

Enjolras kept his pinned to the inside of the sling on his arm, where it was not easily visible but could be periodically spotted by like-minded individuals who would nod their heads in solidarity and unbutton their blazers to reveal one of their own stuck to the inner pocket like a stolen watch for sale. This display of contraband, even more than outrage over the controversy, brought the student body closer than ever; they’d grown up together, but with this cause they were for the first time united. They were a _family_.

Naturally, it couldn’t last.

“They threatened to take away my diploma,” Feuilly said. “I can’t have done all of this for nothing, I’m sorry.”

“It’s not for nothing,” Enjolras assured him. “You helped as much as you can. You’ve got more at stake than everyone else, and you’ve risked a lot already. I really appreciate it.”

“Good luck,” Feuilly said. “I didn't tell them anything. I still support you. I’ve just got to be quieter about it.”

Through all of this, he didn’t hear a word from Grantaire.

Without Feuilly’s buttons, attention waned pretty quickly. By the time presentations began, hardly anyone was still wearing one, and only a few students still seemed upset.

Enjolras spent the whole slideshow of pictures of smiling people accepting free hugs from Cosette and Marius (who had done what they called a “complimentary protest,” patrolling the streets shouting nice things at passers-by) with his head in his hands. He couldn’t imagine anything less worthy of his time than being babysat by an art teacher while these two idiots billed and cooed.

Courfeyrac nudged him. “Pretend to be happy,” he hissed. “They worked really hard, and it’s ten kinds of adorable.”

At times like these, Enjolras really missed Grantaire.

 

The day of Enjolras’s presentation dawned. With the removal of the sling, he’d been allowed to move back into the dorm, so he pulled his blazer over his cast with only Combeferre for company. He picked up the bottle of Ativan and stared at it.

“It’s going to be fine,” Combeferre said, reading his mind. “You’re an excellent speaker.”

“They don’t _like_ me,” Enjolras complained. “They’re not going to listen.”

“They listened about Lamarque,” Combeferre pointed out.

Enjolras frowned. “And that did so much good.”

Combeferre sighed. “Listen to me. This is just high school. We’re going to get out of here and go to college and change the world. This is one day, okay? The last day. Get through it and then it’s over.”

Enjolras nodded. “You’re right. You’re always right. I’m just…”

“You were hopeful. It’s a good thing.” Combeferre smiled. “It’s why you’re going to try again, and next time you’ll succeed.”

Enjolras caught his thumb halfway to his mouth and curled it inside his fist. “To the Calculus final?” he asked.

 

Halfway through Calculus, the class phone rang.

“Enjolras,” Professor Madeleine said, setting the phone back in the cradle. “When you’ve finished your exam, would you please report to the office? They’re holding something for you.”

Courfeyrac shot him a quizzical look, but Enjolras just shrugged.

Enjolras didn’t have the head for numbers that Combeferre did, but he finished his exam in record time. He never could stand a puzzle unsolved, and he didn’t have the patience to wonder another minute.

He took the hall pass and ran toward the office.

“No running,” Professor Javert called from his classroom.

Enjolras slowed to a brisk walk.

“I heard you have something for me?” He asked, trying to hide how out of breath he was.

“Of course,” Madame Houchelop, the office secretary, said with a smile. “It was dropped off for you about an hour ago. I guess you left it at home?” She pulled a flash drive out from under the counter and handed it to him.

“I guess,” Enjolras said, puzzled. “Who left it, do you know?”

“Oh, dear, I’m afraid I don’t.” She smiled apologetically. “It was left with one of the office aides while I was out of the room. I just found it with a note to get it to you.”

“Thank you,” he said, looking at the flash drive.

He had half an hour before his presentation was to begin, so he ducked into a computer lab and stuck the flash drive into it. The file took a long time to load, but finally it did, and—

His breath caught in his throat.

Thirty-five full-color pages of illustrations, hand-drawn and scanned into a computer. Everyone they’d talked to—Mabeuf, Eponine, little Gavroche, and others—rendered in painstaking detail, their stories inked lovingly onto the page. It had a narrative arc, the stories intertwining in ways Enjolras had never imagined. It was the graphic novel of the film he’d hoped to make, but it was better than anything he’d have been able to produce.

 _Grantaire_.

He ejected the flash drive and tried to breathe very deeply. “You bastard,” he whispered. “Doing this for me. I could kill you.”

He clenched the flash drive tight in his working hand and took it to Lamarque’s classroom.

 

The presentation was a stunning success. The class was riveted by the images on the screen, and a few of them seemed emotionally moved by the end.

“I’d like to have a copy printed and bound for the school library,” said Professor Blondel. “If you’ll allow it, I can print a few extras for you to send out. One for the mayor, one for you to keep, and one for your partner?”

Enjolras looked up in alarm.

“Enjolras, please. I’ve taught art at this school for seven years. If you could draw a line, I would know about it by now.” She smiled gently. “I’d recognize his artistry anywhere.”

“You won’t—you won’t tell?” he asked. “I know it’s plagiarism, and I shouldn’t have accepted it, but—”

“Between you and me,” Blondel promised. “Just—tell him not to waste that potential, please, when you talk to him? I don’t think he’ll listen to me.”

“I don’t think he listens to me, either,” Enjolras muttered.

Blondel smiled. “You’d be surprised.”

 _Oh._ Enjolras felt his face heat up. “I—thank you, Professor Blondel, but I—”

“Go,” she said.

He went.

 

He didn’t trust himself to drive, so he let Courfeyrac take him back out to the ratty apartment building.

“This is so exciting,” Courfeyrac babbled. “I’ve never been part of such a romantic story before.”

“You got Marius and Cosette together over a school project and a game of strip Twister,” Enjolras reminded him, jiggling his knee. “I’d say you’re a bigger part of that story than they are.”

“There were a lot fewer dramatic displays of love in that one,” Courfeyrac said. “A lot more blushing and standing around.”

“It’s not a display of—” But Enjolras can’t even say the word. “Can you drive any faster?”

“I’m not running red lights for you,” Courfeyrac snorted. “You’re meeting the boy you have a crush on, not fleeing the law.”

“I don’t have a—how long have you been sitting on this?”

Courfeyrac grinned. “Since you stopped complaining about him all the time. I know the signs of love, and more importantly I know _you._ You were acting so weird. Something had to be up.” He shrugged. “And you’ve been moping like a sick puppy since he’s been gone. It didn’t take a genius to figure out—although I am one.”

“I wasn’t moping,” Enjolras complained.

“You were.” Courfeyrac slowed the car for yet another stoplight.

“Oh, god, let me out. I can _walk_ there faster than this.”

Courfeyrac laughed. “Are you kidding? In this part of town, with a face like yours and your arm already broken? I’ve met your mother, you know. I’d prefer to keep all my limbs. Seems like they might be useful in college.”

They finally pulled up in front of the building, and Enjolras had his seatbelt off before the car had come to a complete stop. “Stay here,” he said. “If you follow me and any part of this ends up on the internet, I swear I will—”

“End me, have my guts for garters, put hair dye in my shampoo, I know,” Courfeyrac said, waving a hand. “Go get him, tiger.”

Enjolras climbed the stairs quickly enough that he could almost fool himself into believing that, rather than the thought of what he was about to do, was the cause of his rapid heartbeat. He knocked on the door to 5A and stood, bouncing from foot to foot, until Montparnasse came to the door.

“Is—”

“Relax,” Montparnasse drawled, a lazy smile growing on his face. “Your boyfriend isn’t here.”

Enjolras bit back the argument before it came out of his mouth. “Can I wait here until he comes back? It’s important.”

“Doesn’t matter how long you wait,” Montparnasse said. “He isn’t coming back. Moved out this morning.”

Enjolras swallowed. “Do you know where he went?”

Montparnasse laughed. “You’re too cute, you know that, kid? I didn’t ask where he was going. It wasn’t my business, right? And if he didn’t tell you, it isn’t yours, either.” He fumbled in the pocket of his patterned silk robe and pulled out a business card. “This is my band. Website’s on the back. If you ever want a good time, that’ll tell you how to find it. But other than that, I can’t help you.”

Courfeyrac was vibrating with excitement when Enjolras slumped back out onto the sidewalk. “How’d it go? Where is he? What happened?” His face fell as he took in Enjolras’s posture. “Oh, no. What happened?”

“He’s gone,” Enjolras said, tongue thick in his mouth. “He, um, he left.”

“Do you know where—” Courfeyrac cut himself off. “You can’t let him get away like that. Not now.”

“I don’t have a choice,” Enjolras said. “It’s over.”

It was all over.

 

“This is it,” Courfeyrac chirped, adjusting his mortarboard so it sat way back on his head. “This is the last day we are children. After this, we are _men_.”

“Except Enjolras,” Jehan said, grinning wickedly. “He isn’t eighteen until July.”

Enjolras grimaced at him. “Is that really necessary?”

“ _Oui, mon petit chou_ ,” Jehan cooed, flipping his hair over his shoulder. “Look how pretty you are when you blush.”

“I think we need a picture,” Courfeyrac announced.

“And does that picture need a photographer?” A voice came from the doorway.

Every atom of Enjolras’s body leapt toward Grantaire, who was leaning in the doorway. He forced his feet to hold fast to the ground. (His face, he feared, he had lost all control over.) “You’re here.”

“I couldn’t miss my best friends’ graduation,” Grantaire said, and he smiled.

That was when Enjolras lost the battle to stay in place. He threw his arms around Grantaire’s neck and pressed his face to those ridiculous messy curls.

“Ow,” Grantaire said. “You brained me with that cast, there.” But he laughed as he said it, and he hugged Enjolras back.

“I’m just so glad you’re here,” he sighed. “To—to take the picture, I mean,” he finished, straightening.

Grantaire smirked. “I’m happy to assist,” he said smoothly. “Now, whose camera am I using? Or does everyone here just use their phone as a camera like the cretins you are?” He sighed. “It’s worse than I feared. No matter. I brought one.” He held up a camera, which Enjolras had somehow managed not to notice before now.

“I didn’t know you took pictures,” Enjolras said.

“I dabble,” Grantaire said. “Now, get together. On the count of three—”

He took a series of shots, which all turned out beautiful.

“You should be in some,” Jehan suggested.

“Nuh uh,” Grantaire said. “ _I’m_ not graduating.”

Enjolras looked at his feet. “You should be,” he said.

Grantaire stepped closer. “Is that bothering you?” He laid a hand on Enjolras’s elbow and drew him slightly away from the crowd. “I probably wouldn’t have graduated anyway. I moved schools so much, I—God, Enjolras, it isn’t your fault. I’ve told you that.”

“But what will you do?”

Grantaire startled. “What will I do? Do you know how long it takes to get a GED?”

Enjolras shook his head, eyes still downcast.

“About seven hours.” Grantaire cupped his cheek and tilted his face up. “Cheer up. I already did it. You didn’t think I was going to drink beer on Montparnasse’s couch for the rest of my life, did you?”

Enjolras bit his lip to avoid having to admit that, yes, that was exactly what he’d thought. “You left, and I didn’t know if I’d ever see you again.”

“How could I stay away?” Grantaire’s eyes twinkled.

This time it was Enjolras who closed the distance between them, pressing his mouth to Grantaire’s and gripping the collar of Grantaire’s shirt with his fingers.

They were interrupted by a flash.

“What?” Courfeyrac asked, trying to look innocent with Grantaire’s camera in his hands. “It deserved documentation.”

Enjolras made a move to grab it from him, but Grantaire grinned and pulled him back in for another kiss.

“I never got to thank you,” Enjolras panted against Grantaire’s lips between kisses. “For—ah—everything, really. The project was—it was _phenomenal.”_

“Don’t thank me for that,” Grantaire said. “I was your partner. It was about time I pulled my weight. And I think it’ll make a killer piece in my portfolio when I apply for art school next year, don’t you?”

Enjolras was so happy to hear that, he had to kiss Grantaire again.

"You don't have to thank me for loving you," Grantaire whispered. "Jesus."

"You read my letter."

Grantaire squeezed his hand. "Of course I did. The part about obverses and conjunctions was particularly strong."

“Break it up, lovebirds,” Combeferre said dryly. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we have a graduation to get to.” He reached out and adjusted Enjolras’s tie. “And you look like a disgrace.”

The ceremony was a blur of flashing cameras and smiling faces. Afterward, Enjolras posed for a few stiff photographs with his parents before Courfeyrac dragged him off.

“It’ll just be a second,” he promised Enjolras’s parents (who had always liked him, and so they let him go). “There’s someone who wants to see you,” he murmured into Enjolras’s ear.

“I already arranged to meet up with Grantaire as soon as I can blow my parents off,” Enjolras said. “Can’t he wait another twenty minutes?”

“No,” an amused voice came from behind him. “He can’t.”

Enjolras turned to find Lamarque standing there. His face broke into a grin and he ran over. “Professor Lamarque!”

“Hello, my boy,” Lamarque said, and pulled Enjolras in for a hug. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” Enjolras said, and he was ashamed to find that there were tears in his eyes. “I’m glad you came.”

“I always come to graduation,” Lamarque said. “I find it helps me cope with the loss of the few students to whom I have become attached. I almost skipped it this year, the circumstances being—well, as they are—but then I heard there was a student-run rebel movement to have me reinstated.”

Enjolras flushed. “It didn’t work,” he said.

“Of course it didn’t work,” Lamarque said, remarkably unruffled. “Bamatabois would never back the students over the trustees, no matter how afraid of you he is. But I’m impressed with the attempt.”

“Still,” Enjolras said. “I wish it had. I’m sad for all the younger students who won’t ever get to learn from you.”

“Ah,” Lamarque said. “Don’t be. They deserve someone younger than me anyhow. We’ve all got to go sometime. Besides,” he said, eyes sparkling merrily, “I’ve always wanted time to write a book.”

“You’ll have to send me a copy,” Enjolras said, smiling at him.

“Signed first edition hardcover,” Lamarque promised, “as long as you never implicate me in your more criminal pursuits.”

“Uh, Enjolras?” Combeferre said. “I hate to interrupt, but I think your parents are looking for you.”

Lamarque nodded. “Go. No sense in angering them this close to your escape. A little bird told me you’re headed to St. Paul?”

Enjolras nodded.

“Best of luck. I’ll be thinking of you, you know.”

“That means a lot.” Enjolras ducked his head. “Thank you, for—so much, really,” he said.

“My pleasure,” Lamarque said, shaking his hand. “Now go back to your families. All of you. Leave an old man some peace.”

 

“I can’t believe it’s over,” Enjolras sighed, looping his fingers with Grantaire’s.

“Me neither,” Grantaire said. “I’m not as attached to this place as you are, but I think I’m going to miss it when we’re sneaking in and out of your parents’ house all summer.”

Enjolras smiled. “As soon as the cast’s off, it’ll get a lot easier. There’s a trellis under my window—”

“That’s admirably Romeo and Juliet of you, but I’d rather your skull not be the next bone of yours I get broken.”

“You didn’t—oh, you’re teasing me. That’s not fair.” Enjolras jabbed Grantaire in the ribs with his elbow. “You know that’s not fair.”

“Someone as close to Courfeyrac as you are should be a little more attuned to gentle ribbing,” Grantaire said. “I’m _helping_ you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Enjolras grumbled, smile shaping his face. “Sure, a Michael’s sales associate can help _me.”_

Grantaire huffed. “That’s just until I get into art school,” he said. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re an asshole?”

“Pretty much every day since I turned nine,” Enjolras nodded. “Before that, the insults were a little more colorful.”

“Come here, you,” Grantaire laughed, grabbing Enjolras by the belt loops and tugging him in for a kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That is the end! Finally.
> 
> Thanks to re_repeat for providing 11th hour reassurances, playing spot-the-typo, and telling me that, no, really, the ending is fine.
> 
> I am on tumblr! You may come say hi (or "how dare you" if you're still upset about chapter 4) over at notanearlyadopter.tumblr.com.
> 
> My headcanon for the future is that, after a few months of work, Grantaire gets into MCAD, putting him in Minneapolis-- fifteen minutes away from Enjolras in light traffic (you're welcome.)
> 
> Thank you all very much for sticking with this story; I am fond of it and all of you.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope this is off to a good start. I'll be updating periodically-- I will bring this fic to a satisfying conclusion or die trying! Thank you for reading.


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